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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


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ONE-ACT  PLAYS 

BY  MODERN  AUTHORS 


EDITED  BY 


HELEN    LOUISE   COHEN,   Ph.   D. 

Chairman  of  the  Department  of  English  in  the 

Washington  Irving  High  School  in  the 

City  of  New  York 

Author  of  "The  Ballade" 


m 


NEW   YORK 

HARCOURT.   BRACE  AND   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    ig2I,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE   AND   COMPANY,    INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U.    S      A.    BY 

THE    QUINN    a    BODEN    COMPANY 

5AHWAV.     N.    J. 


To 

M.  S.  S. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Had  not  both  authors  and  publishers  acted  with  the  greatest 
generosity,  this  collection  could  not  have  been  made.  Though  the 
editor  cannot  adequately  express  her  sense  of  obligation,  she  wishes 
at  least  to  record  explicitly  her  indebtedness  to  Mr.  Harold  Brig- 
house,  Lord  Dunsany,  Mr.  John  Galsworthy,  Lady  Gregory,  Mr. 
Percy  MacKaye,  Miss  Jeannette  Marks,  Miss  Josephine  Preston  Pea- 
body,  Professor  Robert  Emmons  Rogers,  Mr.  Booth  Tarkington,  and 
Professor  Stark  Young.  The  editor  also  desires  to  thank  Chatto  & 
Windus,  Duffield  &  Company,  Gowans  &  Gray,  Ltd.,  Harper  & 
Brothers,  Little,  Brown  &  Company,  John  W.  Luce  &  Company, 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  and  The  Sunwise 
Turn,  for  permissions  granted  ungrudgingly. 

Through  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  T.  M.  Cleland,  director  of  the 
Beechwood  Players,  the  pictures  of  the  Beechwood  Theatre  appear. 
Miss  Mary  W.  Carter,  chairman  of  the  Department  of  English  in 
the  High  School  in  Montclair,  New  Jersey,  contributed  the  photo- 
graphs of  the  Garden  Theatre.  Other  illustrations  appear  through 
the  kindness  of  Theatre  Arts  Magazine,  and  of  The  Neighborhood 
Playhouse. 

The  editor  is  grateful  to  Mrs.  John  W.  Alexander,  Mr.  B.  Iden 
Payne,  and  Mrs.  T.  Bernstein  for  the  privilege  of  personal  confer- 
ences on  the  subject  of  the  book.  To  Mr.  Robert  Edmond  Jones, 
who  has  allowed  three  of  his  designs  to  be  reproduced  and  who 
has  read  and  corrected  that  part  of  the  Introduction  that  deals  with 
The  New  Art  of  the  Theatre,  the  editor  takes  this  opportunity  of 
expressing  her  warm  appreciation.  Finally,  the  editor  wishes  to  thank 
her  friend,  Helen  Hopkins  Crandell  for  her  indefatigable  work  on 
the  proofs  of  this  book. 


PREFACE 

Perhaps  the  student  who  is  going  to  read  the  plays  in  this 
collection  may  have  felt  at  some  time  or  other  a  gap  between 
the  "  classics  "  that  he  was  working  over  in  school  and  the 
contemporary  literature  that  he  heard  commonly  discussed,  but 
he  does  not  know  that  until  recently  few  books  were  studied 
in  the  high  school  that  were  less  than  half  a  century  old.  Con- 
sciousness of  the  gap  often  drove  him  to  trashy  reading.  He 
recognized  Addison  as  respectable  but  remote,  and  yet  he  had 
no  guide  to  the  good  literature  which  the  writers  of  his  own 
day  were  producing  and  which  would  be  especially  interesting 
to  him,  because  its  ideas  and  language  would  be  more  nearly 
contemporary  with  his  own. 

Even  though  the  greatest  literature  has  the  quality  of  uni- 
versality, it  has  been  almost  invariably  my  experience  that,  only 
as  one  grows  older,  is  one  quite  ready  to  appreciate  this  quality. 
When  one  is  young,  it  is  easier  to  enjoy  literature  written  from 
a  point  of  view  nearer  to  one's  own  life  and  times.  Reading 
good  contemporary  literature  is  likely  also  to  pave  the  way  for 
a  deeper  appreciation  of  the  great  masterpieces  of  all  time. 

This  is  a  collection  of  one-act  plays,  some  of  them  less  than 
five  years  old,  chosen  both  because  their  appeal  seems  not  to  be 
limited  to  the  adult  audiences  for  which  they  were  originally 
written,  and  because  they  may  well  serve  the  purpose  of  intro- 
ducing the  student  to  contemporary  dramatists  of  standing. 
Some  of  them,  it  is  true,  make  use  of  old  stories  and  traditions, 
but  the  treatment  is  in  all  cases  modern,  if  we  except  the  lit- 
erary fashion  that  we  find  in  Josephine  Preston  Peabody's 
Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes.  This,  though  it  is  a  one-act  play, 
a  modern  development,  is  written  more  or  less  in  the  Shake- 
spearian convention ;  but  whether  we  are  bookish  or  not,  we 
can  hardly  help  having  a  knowledge  of  Shakespeare's  plays, 
because,  popular  with  all  kinds  of  people,  they  are  continually 
being  revived  on  the  stage,  and  quoted  in  conversation. 

The  plays  in  this  book,  though  intended  for  class-room  stud>, 
may  be  acted  as  well  as  read.     The  general  introduction  will 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 

be  found  helpful  to  groups  who  produce  plays,  to  those  who 
live  in  cities  and  go  to  the  theatre  often,  and  to  those  who  like 
to  experiment  with  dramatic  composition.  For  this  book  was 
planned  to  encourage  an  understanding  attitude  towards  the 
theatre,  to  deepen  the  love  that  is  latent  in  the  majority  of 
us  for  what  is  beautiful  and  uplifting  in  the  drama,  and  to 
make  playgoing  a  less  expensive,  more  regular,  and  more  intel- 
ligent diversion  for  the  generation  that  is  growing  up. 

H.  L.  C 

Washington  Irving  High  School, 
New  York,  i   February,  1921, 


CONTENTS 

Introduction  page 

I  The  Workmanship  of  the  One-Act  Play xiii 

Theatres  of  To-day 

The  Commercial  Theatre  and  the  Repertory  Idea   .  xx 

The  Little  Theatre xxiii 

The  Irish  National  Theatre xxvi 

The  New  Art  of  the  Theatre xxlx 

Playmaking xxxiv 

The  Theatre  in  the  School 1 

Robert  Emmons  Rogers 

The  Boy  Will xxxviii 

Booth  Tarkington 

Introduction 3 

Beauty  and  the  Jacobin 5 

Ernest  Dowson 

Introduction 53 

The  Pierrot  of  the  Minute 55 

Oliphant  Down 

Introduction 77 

The  Maker  of  Dreams 79 

Percy  MacKaye 

Introduction 97 

Gettysburg 99 

A.  A.  Milne 

Introduction 113 

Wurzel-Flummery 115 

Harold  Brighouse 

Introduction 139 

Maid  of  France 141 

Lady  Gregory 

Introduction 157 

Spreading  the  News 159 

Jeannette  Marks 

Introduction 179 

Welsh  Honeymoon i8i 

ix 


X  CONTENTS 

John  Millington  Synge  page 

Introduction 195 

Riders  to  the  Sea 198 

Lord  Dunsany 

Introduction 211 

A  Night  at  an  Inn 213 

Stark  Young 

Introduction 226 

The  Twilight  Saint 227 

Ladv  Alix  Egerton 

Introduction 241 

The  Masque  of  the  Two  Strangers 244 

Maurice  Maeterlinck 

Introduction ' 265 

The  Intruder 268 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

Introduction 287 

Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes 289 

John  Galsworthy 

Introduction 323 

The  Little  Man 325 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGB 

Tiuelfih  Night  on  the  stage  of  the  Theatre  du  Vieux  Colombler 
in  New  York xxiv 

Design  for  The  Merchant  of  Venice  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones     .     xxx 

Design  for  Good  Gracious  Annabelle  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones  .  xxxii 

Design  for  The  Seven  Princesses  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones  .         xxxiv 

The  Beechwood  Theatre.     Exterior  and  Interior     ....   Iviii 

The  Garden  Theatre.     The  original  site,  and  the  theatre  as  it 
looks  to-day Ix 

Setting  for  The  Maker  of  Dreams  at  The  Neighborhood  Play- 
house designed  by  Aline  Bernstein 79 

Costumes  for  The  Masque  of  the  Tivo  Strangers  designed  at  the 
Washington  Irving  High  School. 

Plate  I 240 

Plate  2 253 

Setting  for  The  Intruder  designed  by  Sam  Hume     ....     268 


INTRODUCTION 
THE  WORKMANSHIP  OF  THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY 

The  one-act  play  is  a  new  form  of  the  drama  and  more 
emphatically  a  new  form  of  literature.  Its  possibilities  began 
to  attract  the  attention  of  European  and  American  writers  in 
the  last  decade  of  the  nineteenth  century,  those  years  when  so 
many  dramatic  traditions  lapsed  and  so  many  precedents 
were  established.  It  is  significant  that  the  oldest  play  in  the 
present  collection  is  Maeterlinck's  The  Intruder,  published 
in   1890. 

The  history  of  this  new  form  is  of  necessity  brief.  Before 
its  vogue  became  general,  one-act  plays  were  being  presented 
in  vaudeville  houses  in  this  country  and  were  being  used  as 
curtain  raisers  in  London  theatres  for  the  purpose  of  marking 
time  until  the  late-dining  audiences  should  arrive.  With  the 
exception  of  the  famous  Grand  Guignol  Theatre  in  Paris, 
where  the  entertainment  for  an  evening  might  consist  of  sev- 
eral one-act  plays,  all  of  the  hair-raising,  blood-curdling  variety, 
programs  composed  entirely  of  one-act  plays  were  rare.  Sir 
James  Matthew  Barrie  is  usually  credited  with  being  the  first 
in  England  to  write  one-act  plays  intended  to  be  grouped  in 
a  single  production.  A  program  of  this  character  has  been  un- 
common in  the  commercial  theatre  in  America,  but  three  of 
Barrie's  one-act  plays,  constituting  a  single  program,  have  met 
with  enthusiastic  response  from  American  audiences. 

There  are  two  new  developments  in  the  history  of  the 
theatre  that  have  encouraged  and  promoted  the  writing  of  one- 
act  plays:  the  one  is  the  Repertory  Theatre  abroad  and  the 
other  is  the  Little  Theatre  movement  on  both  sides  of  the  At- 
lantic. The  repertory  of  the  Irish  Players,  for  example,  is 
composed  largely  of  one-act  plays,  and  American  Little  Theatres 
are  given  over  almost  exclusively  to  the  one-act  play. 

The  one-act  play  is  in  reality  so  new  a  phenomenon,  in  spite 
of  the  use  that  has  been  made  of  the  form  by  playwrights  like 
Pinero,   Hauptmann,   Chekov,   Shaw,  and  others  of   the  first 

xiii 


xlv  INTRODUCTION 

rank,  that  it  is  still  generally  ignored  in  books  on  dramatic 
workmanship.^  None  the  less,  the  status  of  the  one-act  play  is 
established  and  a  study  of  the  plays  of  this  length,  which  are 
rapidly  increasing  in  number,  discloses  certain  tendencies  and 
laws  which  are  exemplified  in  the  form  itself.  Clayton  Ham- 
ilton sums  up  the  matter  well  when  he  says:  "The  one-act 
play  is  admirable  in  itself,  as  a  medium  of  art.  It  shows  the 
same  relation  to  the  full-length  play  as  the  short-story  shows 
to  the  novel.  It  makes  a  virtue  of  economy  of  means.  It 
aims  to  produce  a  single  dramatic  effect  with  the  greatest 
economy  of  means  that  is  consistent  with  the  utmost  emphasis. 
The  method  of  the  one-act  play  at  its  best  is  similar  to  the 
method  employed  by  Browning  in  his  dramatic  monologues. 
The  author  must  suggest  the  entire  history  of  a  soul  by  seizing 
it  at  some  crisis  of  its  career  and  forcing  the  spectator  to  look 
upon  it  from  an  unexpected  and  suggestive  point  of  view.  A 
one-act  play  in  exhibiting  the  present  should  imply  the  past 
and  intimate  the  future.  The  author  has  no  leisure  for  la- 
borious exposition;  but  his  mere  projection  of  a  single  situation 
should  sum  up  in  itself  the  accumulated  results  of  many  ante- 
cedent causes.  .  .  .  The  form  is  complete,  concise  and  self- 
sustaining;  it  requires  an  extraordinary  force  of  imagination." - 
To  follow  for  a  moment  a  train  of  thought  suggested  by 
Mr.  Hamilton's  timely  and  appreciative  comment  on  the  tech- 
nique of  the  one-act  play:  All  writers  on  the  short-story  agree 
that,  to  use  Poe's  phrase,  "  the  vastly  important  artistic  ele- 
ment, totality,  or  unity  of  effect  "  is  indispensable  to  the  suc- 
cessful short-story.  This  singleness  of  effect  is  an  equally  im- 
portant consideration  in  the  structure  of  the  one-act  play.  A 
short-story  is  not  a  condensed  novel  any  more  than  a  one-act 
play  is  a  condensed  full-length  play.  There  is  no  fixed  length 
for  the  one-act  play  any  more  than  there  is  for  the  short-story. 
The  one-act  play  must  have  its  "  dominant  incident "  and 
"  dominant  character  "  like  the  short-story.  The  effect  of  the 
one-act  play,  as  of  the  short-story,  is  measured  by  the  way  it 
makes  its  readers  and  spectators  feel.     Neither  the  short-story 

*  See,  however,  Clayton  Hamilton,  Studies  in  Statecraft,  New  York, 
1914,  and  B.  Roland  Lewis,  The  Technique  of  the  One-Act  Play, 
Boston,  1918. 

"  Clayton  Hamilton,  Studies  in  Stagecraft,,  New  York,  1914,  pp. 
254-255. 


WORKMANSHIP  OF  THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY      xv 

nor  the  one-act  play  need  necessarily  "  be  founded  on  one  of 
the  passionate  cruces  of  life,  where  duty  and  inclination  come 
nobly  to  the  grapple."  One  has  but  to  consider  the  short- 
stories  of  Henry  James  or  the  one-act  plays  of  Galsworthy  or 
of  Maeterlinck  to  be  convinced  that  a  violent  struggle  is  not 
necessary  to  the  art  of  either  form. 

frf    This  point  is  further  illustrated  in  what  Galsworthy  him- 
self says  in  general  about  drama  in  his  famous  essay,  Some 
Platitudes   Concerning   the  Drama,  which   should   be   read   in 
connection  with  his  satirical  comedy.    The  Little  Man.     In 
that  essay  Galsworthy  writes:   "The  plot!     A  good  plot  is 
that  sure  edifice  which  slowly  rises  out  of  the  interplay  of  cir- 
cumstance on  temperament,  and  temperament  on  circumstance, 
within  the  enclosing  atmosphere  of  an  idea.     A  human  being 
is  the  best  plot  there  is.    .    .    .    Now  true  dramatic  action  is  what 
characters  do,  at  once  contrary,  as  it  were,  to  expectation,  and 
yet  because  they  have  already  done  other  things.   .    .    .   Good 
dialogue   again    is   character,    marshaled    so   as   continually    to 
stimulate  interest  or  excitement."     This  commentary  of  Gals- 
worthy's on  dramatic  technique  offers  to  the  student  of   The 
Little  Man  an  unusual  opportunity  to  verify  a  great  critic's 
theory  by  a  great  playwright's  practice.     It  is  indeed  the  char- 
acter of  the  Little  Man  that  is  the  plot  in  this  case;  the  plot 
may  be  said  to  begin  when,  according  to  stage  direction,  the 
hapless  Baby  wails,  and  to  be  well  launched  with  the  Little 
Man's  deprecatory,  "  Herr  Ober!     Might  I  have  a  glass  of 
beer?"     These  words  distinguish  him   immediately  from   his 
bullying  companions  in  the  buffet.     The  highest  point  of  in- 
terest, like  the  beginning  of  the  plot,  is  to  be  found  in  the  play 
of  the  Little  Man's  personality,  at  the  point  where  he  is  left 
alone  with  the  Baby,  now  a  typhus  suspect,  and  after  an  in- 
stant's wavering,  bends  all  his  puny  energies  to  pacifying  its 
uneasy  cry.    Again,  the  end  of  the  plot  comes  with  the  tribute 
of  the  bewildered  but  adoring  mother  to  the  ineffably  gentle 
Little  Man. 

But  a  one-act  play  that  has  any  pretensions  to  literature 
must  be  looked  upon  as  a  law  unto  itself  and  should  not  be 
expected  to  conform  to  any  set  of  arbitrary  requirements.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  only  a  very  few  generalizations  that 
can  be  made  with  regard  to  the  structure  or  to  the  classification 
of  the  one-act  play.     Even  this  book  contains  plays  that  are 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

not  susceptible  of  any  hard  and  fast  classification.  The  In- 
truder and  Riders  to  the  Sea  are  indubitably  tragedies,  but 
Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes,  dealing,  as  it  does,  with  the  tragic 
theme  of  love's  disillusionment,  belongs  not  at  all  with  the  plays 
of  Maeterlinck  and  Synge,  shadowed,  as  they  are,  by  death. 
And  though  the  deaths  are  many  and  bloody  in  A  Night  at 
an  Inn,  the  unreality  of  the  romance  is  so  strong  that  there  is 
no  such  wrenching  of  the  human  sympathies  as  we  associate 
with  tragedy.  The  Pierrot  of  the  Minute  is  superficially  a 
Harlequinade,  but  Dowson's  insistence  on  the  theme  of  satiety 
brings  it  narrowly  within  the  range  of  satire.  Beauty  and  the 
Jacobin  is  rich  in  comedy;  so  is  Lady  Gregory's  Spreading  the 
News,  and  in  both,  the  situations  change  imperceptibly  from 
comedy  to  farce  and  from  farce  back  to  comedy. 

The  laws  of  the  structure  of  the  one-act  play  are  in  the 
nature  of  dramatic  art  no  less  flexible.  It  can  be  said  that  in 
order  to  secure  that  singleness  of  impression  that  is  as  essential 
to  the  one-act  play  as  to  the  short-story,  a  single  well  sustained 
theme  is  necessary,  a  theme  announced  in  some  fashion  early 
in  the  plaJ^  Indeed  since  the  one-act  play  is  a  short  dramatic 
form,  it  may  be  said  in  regard  to  the  announcing  of  the 
theme  that,  "  'Twere  well  it  were  done  quickly."  In  Spread- 
ing the  News,  the  curtain  is  barely  up  before  Mrs.  Tarpey  is 
telling  the  magistrate:  "  Business,  is  it?  What  business  would 
the  people  here  have  but  to  be  minding  one  another's  busi- 
ness?" And  at  approximately  the  same  moment  in  the  action 
of  The  Intruder,  the  uncle,  foreshadowing  the  theme  of  the 
mysterious  coming  of  death,  says:  "When  once  illness  has 
come  into  a  house,  it  is  as  though  a  stranger  had  forced  him- 
self into  the  family  circle." 

The  single  dominant  theme  for  its  dramatic  expression  calls 
also  for  a  single  situation  developing  to  a  single  climax.  In 
the  case  of  Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes,  it  is  the  ballad-monger, 
who  in  crying  his  wares, 

"Plays,  Play  not  Fair, 
Or  how   a   gentlenvoman's  heart  was   took 
By  a   player,  that  was  King  in   a   stage-play," 

gives  us  in  the  first  few  minutes  of  the  play  his  ironical  clue 
to  the  theme.    And  this  theme  is  worked  out  in  Mary  Fytton's 


WORKMANSHIP  OF  THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY    xvii 

shallow  intrigue  with  William  Herbert,  which  culminates  in 
the  shattering  of  the  Player's  dream  on  that  autumn  day  in 
South  London  at  "  The  Bear  and  the  Angel." 

The  single  situation  exemplifying  the  theme  of  The  Intruder 
is  found  in  the  repeatedly  expressed  premonitions  of  the  blind 
Grandfather,  stationary  in  his  armchair,  whose  heightened 
senses  detect  the  presence  of  the  Mysterious  Stranger.  The 
unity  of  effect  secured  in  this  play  is  only  rivaled,  not  sur- 
passed, by  the  wonderful  totality  of  impression  experienced  by 
the  reader  of  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher.  The  unity  of 
effect  in  The  Intruder  is  secured  also  by  Maeterlinck's  descrip- 
tion of  the  setting,  which  reminds  the  playgoer  or  the  reader 
inevitably  of  Stevenson's  familiar  words:  "  Certain  dark  gar- 
dens cry  aloud  for  murder;  certain  old  houses  demand  to  be 
haunted." 

In  general,  as  has  been  said,  the  plot  of  the  one-act  play, 
because  of  the  time  limitations,  admits  of  no  distracting  inci- 
dents. For  the  same  reason  the  characterization  must  be  swift 
and  direct.  By  Bartley  Fallon's  first  speech  in  Spreading  the 
News,  Lady  Gregory  characterizes  him  completely.  He  needs 
but  say:  "  Indeed  it's  a  poor  country  and  a  scarce  country  to 
be  living  in.  But  I'm  thinking  if  I  went  to  America  it's  long 
ago  the  day  I'd  be  dead,"  and  the  fundamental  part  of  his 
character  is  fixed  in  the  minds  of  the  audience.  From  that 
moment  it  is  just  a  question  of  filling  in  the  picture  with 
pantomime  and  further  dialogue. 

The  characterization  of  the  Player  in  Fortune  and  Mens 
Eyes  begins  at  the  moment  that  he  enters  the  tavern,  when 
Wat,  the  bear-ward,  calls  out: 

"  I  say,  I've  played.  .  .  .  There's  not  one  man 
Of  all  the  gang — save  one.  .  .  .  Ay,  there  be  one 
I  grant  you,  now!  .  .  .  He  used  me  in  right  sort; 
A  man  worth  better  trades." 

Wat's  verdict  on  the  fair-mindedness  of  Master  William 
Shakespeare  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  company  is  borne  out 
by  the  Player's  own, 

"High  fortune,  man! 
Commend    me    to    thy   bear." 

{Drinks  and  passes  him  the  cup.l 


xvlH  INTRODUCTION 

The  entrance  of  the  ballad-monger  gives  Master  Will  an  open- 
ing for  a  punning  jest  and,  the  action  continuing,  shows  him 
sympathetic  to  the  strayed  lady-in-waiting,  tender  to  the  tavern 
boy,  magnanimous  to  the  false  friend  and  falser  love. 

One  method  of  characterization  which  the  author  allows  her- 
self to  use  in  this  play,  no  doubt  to  heighten  the  Elizabethan 
illusion,  is  rare  in  the  contemporary  drama:  when  this  "dark 
lady  of  the  sonnets "  flees  "  The  Bear  and  the  Angel,"  the 
Player  breaks  forth  into  the  self-revealing  soliloquy,  found 
so  frequently  in  his  own  plays,  and  continuing  as  a  dra- 
matic convention  until  the  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth 
centur}^^ 

Characterization  rests  in  part  on  pantomime.  In  The  Little 
■Man,  the  Dutch  Youth  is  dumb  throughout  the  play,  but  he 
is  sufficiently  characterized  by  his  foolish  demeanor  and  his  re- 
current laugh.  The  part  of  the  Little  Man  himself  is  one 
long  gesture  of  humility  and  dedication.  In  those  one-act 
plays  in  which  the  old  characters  of  the  Harlequinade  reappear, 
like  The  Maker  of  Dreams  and  The  Pierrot  of  the  Minute, 
pantomime  transcends  dialogue  as  a  method  of  characteriza- 
tion. In  the  plays  of  the  Irish  dramatists,  Synge,  Yeats,  and 
Lady  Gregory,  pantomime  and  dialogue  contribute  equally  to 
the  characterization,  which  is  of  a  very  high  order,  since  all 
these  dramatists  were  close  observers  of  the  Irish  peasant  char- 
acters of  their  plays. 

Synge,  especially,  illustrates  the  following  critical  theory  of 
Galsworthy:  "The  art  of  writing  true  dramatic  dialogue  is 
an  austere  art,  denying  itself  all  license,  grudging  every  sen- 
tence devoted  to  the  mere  machinery  of  the  plaj^  suppressing 
all  jokes  and  epigrams  severed  from  character,  relying  for  fun 
and  pathos  on  the  fun  and  tears  of  life.  From  start  to  finish 
good  dialogue  is  hand-made,  like  good  lace;  clear,  of  fine  tex- 
ture, furthering  with  each  thread  the  harmony  and  strength 
of  a  design  to  which  all  must  be  subordinated."  A  study  of 
the  dialogue  of  Riders  to  the  Sea  reveals  just  this  harmony 

1  The  Elizabethan  platform  stage  survived  until  then  in  the  shape 
of  the  long  "  apron,"  projecting  in  front  of  the  proscenium.  The 
characters  were  constantly  stepping  out  of  the  frame  of  the  picture; 
and  while  this  visual  convention  maintained  itself,  there  was  nothing 
inconsistent  or  jarring  in  the  auditory  convention  of  the  soliloquy. 
See  William  Archer,  Play-Making,  Boston,  1912,  pp.  397-405- 


WORKMANSHIP  OF  THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY     xix 

between  the  dialogue  and  the  inevitability  of  the  plot,  the  dia- 
logue and  the  simplicity  of  the  characters. 

The  dialogue  in  The  Little  Man  is  the  very  idiom  one 
would  expect  to  issue  from  the  mouth  of  the  German  colonel, 
the  Englishman  with  the  Oxford  voice,  or  the  intensely  na- 
tional American,  as  the  case  may  be.  The  characters,  though 
they  have  type  names,  are,  as  Mr.  Galsworthy  would  probably 
be  the  first  to  explain,  highly  individualized.  The  author  does 
not  intend  us  to  think  that  all  Americans  are  like  this  loud- 
voiced  traveler,  or  all  Englishmen  like  the  pharisaical  gentle- 
man who  gives  his  wife  the  advertisements  to  read  while  he 
secures  the  news  sheet  for  himself. 

The  function  of  dialogue  is  the  same  both  in  the  long  and 
in  the  short  play.  For,  of  course,  both  forms  have  many  things 
in  common.  For  instance,  as  in  the  full-length  play  it  is 
necessary  for  the  dramatist  to  carry  forward  the  interest  from 
act  to  act,  to  provide  a  "  curtain  "  that  will  leave  the  audience 
in  a  state  of  suspense,  so  in  the  one-act  play,  the  interest  must 
be  similarly  relayed  though  the  plot  is  confined  to  a  single  act. 
In  The  Intruder,  every  premonition  expressed  by  the  Grand- 
father grips  the  audience  in  such  a  way  that  they  await  from 
minute  to  minute  the  coming  of  the  mysterious  stranger.  The 
tension  is  high  in  A  Night  at  an  Inn  from  the  moment  the 
curtain  rises.  In  Riders  to  the  Sea,  the  beginning  of  the  sus- 
pense coincides  with  the  opening  of  the  play  and  lasts. 
"  They're  all  gone  now,  and  there  isn't  anything  more  the  sea 
can  do  to  me,"  says  Maurya,  and  the  audience  experiences  a 
rush  of  relief  and  a  sense  of  release  that  the  last  words,  "  No 
man  at  all  can  be  living  for  ever,  and  we  must  be  satisfied," 
seem  only  to  deepen. 

A  one-act  play,  then,  has  many  structural  features  in  com- 
mon with  the  short-story ;  its  plot  must  from  beginning  to  end 
be  dominated  by  a  single  theme;  its  crises  may  be  crises  of 
character  as  well  as  conflicts  of  will  or  physical  conflicts;  it 
must  by  a  method  of  foreshadowing  sustain  the  interest  of  the 
audience  unflaggingly,  but  ultimately  relieve  their  tension ;  it 
must  achieve  swift  characterization  by  means  of  pantomime  and 
dialogue;  and  its  dialogue  must  achieve  its  effects  by  the  same 
methods  as  the  dialogue  of  longer  plays,  but  by  even  greater 
economy  of  means.  But  when  all  is  said  and  done,  the  success 
of  a  one-act  play  is  judged  not  by  its  conformity  to  any  set 


3bc  INTRODUCTION 

of  hard  and  fast  rules,  but  by  its  power  to  interest,  enlighten, 
and  hold  an  audience. 


THEATRES  OF  TO-DAY 
THE  COMMERCIAL  THEATRE   AND  THE   REPERTORY   IDEA 

The  term  "  Commercial  Theatre "  is  rarely  used  without 
disparagement.  The  critic  or  the  playwright  who  speaks  of 
the  Commercial  Theatre  usually  does  so  either  for  the  purpose 
of  reflecting  on  the  cheapness  of  the  entertainment  afforded, 
or  in  order  to  call  attention  to  spectacular  receipts. 

In  this  country  the  Commercial  Theatre  stands  for  that  form 
of  big  business  in  the  theatrical  world  that  produces  dividends 
on  the  money  invested  comparable  to  those  earned  by  the  most 
prosperous  of  the  large  industries.  This  system  has  been,  on 
the  whole,  a  bad  thing  for  the  drama,  because  managers  with 
their  eye  on  attractions  that  should  yield  a  return,  let  us  say, 
of  over  ten  per  cent  on  the  investment,  have  been  unable  to 
produce  the  superior  play  with  an  appeal  to  a  definite,  though 
perhaps  limited  audience,  and  have  had  to  offer  to  the  public 
the  kind  of  play  that  would  draw  large  audiences  over  a  long 
period  of  time.  The  "  longest  run  for  the  safest  possible  play  " 
is  thus  conspicuously  associated  with  the  Commercial  Theatre. 
As  Clayton  Hamilton  says:  "The  trouble  with  the  prevailing 
theatre  system  in  America  to-day  is  not  that  this  system  is  com- 
mercial; for  in  any  democratic  country,  it  is  not  unreasonable 
to  expect  the  public  to  defray  the  cost  of  the  sort  of  drama 
that  it  wishes,  and  that,  therefore,  it  deserves.  The  trouble  is, 
rather,  that  our  theatre  system  is  devoted  almost  entirely  to 
big  business;  and  that  in  ignoring  the  small  profits  of  small 
business  it  tends  to  exclude  not  only  the  uncommercial  drama, 
but  the  non-commercial  drama  as  well."  ^  Here  he  makes 
a  distinction  between  an  "  uncommercial  "  play,  that  is,  a  play 
that  is  a  failure  with  all  kinds  of  audiences,  and  the  "  non- 
commercial "  play,  which  is  capable  of  holding  its  own  finan- 
cially and  yielding  modest  returns. 

In  the  days  before  the  pooling  of  theatrical  interests  in  this 

^  Clayton  Hamilton,   The  Non-Commercial  Drama.   The  Bookman, 
May,  1915. 


THEATRES  OF  TO-DAY  xxi 

country  there  were  indeed  long  runs,  but  in  many  of  the  large 
American  cities  "  stock  companies,"  composed  of  groups  of 
actors  and  actresses  all  of  about  the  same  reputation  and 
ability,  were  maintained  that  kept  a  number  of  plays,  a  "  reper- 
tory," before  the  public  in  the  course  of  a  season  and  gave 
scope  for  experiment  with  various  kinds  of  plays.  But  the 
"  star  system,"  which  has  now  become  common,  has  tended  to 
drive  out  the  "  stock  company  "  idea,  with  the  result  that  the 
average  company  rests  on  the  reputation  of  the  "  star  "  and 
dispenses  with  distinction  in  the  "  support."  With  the  decay 
of  the  stock  company,  the  repertory  system,  in  the  form  in 
which  it  did  once  exist  here  in  the  Commercial  Theatre,  has 
also  declined. 

Both  in  Great  Britain  and  in  America  the  repertory  system, 
long  established  on  the  Continent,  has  been  reintroduced  in 
order  to  combat  the  practices  of  the  Commercial  Theatre.  For 
the  most  part  the  new  repertory  theatres  have  been  endowed 
either  by  the  State  or  by  private  individuals.  "  Absolute  enn 
dowment  for  absolute  freedom,"  ^  has  seemed  to  at  least  one 
American  the  only  means  of  delivering  the  drama  from  com- 
mercial bondage.  This  phrase  of  Percy  MacKaye's  expresses 
his  cherished  belief  that  endowed  civic  theatres,  which  should 
encourage  the  participation  of  whole  communities  in  a  com- 
munity form  of  drama,  are  what  is  needed  in  a  democracy, 
John  Masefield,  in  the  following  lines  from  the  prologue 
written  for  the  opening  of  the  Liverpool  Repertory  Theatre, 
has  found  a  poetic  theme  in  this  idea  of  an  endowed  theatre: 

"Men  will  not  spend,  it  seems,  on  that  one  art 
Which   is    life's   inmost   soul   and   passionate    heart; 
They  count  the  theatre  a  place  for  fun. 
Where  man  can  laugh  at  nights  when  work  is  done. 

If  it  were  only  that,  'twould  be  worth  while 
To  subsidize  a  thing  which  makes  men  smile; 
But  it  is  more;  it  is  that  splendid  thing, 
A  place  where  man's  soul  shakes  triumphant  wing; 

A  place  of  art  made  living,  where  men  may  see 
What  human  life  is  and  has  seemed  to  be 
To  the   world's   greatest   brains.   .    .    . 

^  Percy  MacKaye,  The  Playhouse  and  the  Play,  New  York,  1909, 
p.  86. 


xxll  INTRODUCTION 

O    you    who    hark 
Fan   to    a    flame   through   England    this   first   spark, 
Till   in  this  land   there's  none   so  poor  of   purse 
But  he  may  see  high  deeds  and  hear  high  verse, 
And  feel  his  folly  lashed,  and  think  him  great 
In  this  world's  tragedy  of  Life  and  Fate."  ^ 

In   Great  Britain   repertory  is  associated  with   the   interest 
and  generosity  of  Miss  A.  E.  F.  Horniman,  who  will  be  men- 
tioned  in   connection   with   the   Irish   National   Theatre,    and 
through  whom,  after  some  preliminary  experiment,  the  Gaiety 
Theatre  at  Manchester  was  opened  as  the  first  repertory  house 
in  England,  in  the  spring  of   1908.     Fifty-five  different  plays 
were  produced  in  a  little  over  two  years — "  twenty-eight  new, 
seventeen  revivals  of  modern  English  plays,  five  modern  trans- 
lations, and  five  classics."  ^     In  Miss  Horniman's  own  words, 
her    interest    was    in    a    Civilized    Theatre.      "  A    Civilized 
Theatre,"  she  has  written,  "  means  that  a  city  has  something 
of  cultivation  in  it,  something  to  make  literature  grow;  a  real 
theatre,  not  a  mere  amusing  toy.    What  we  want  is  the  oppor- 
tunity for  our  men  and  women,  our  boys  and  girls  to  get  a 
chance  to  see  the  works  of  the  greatest  dramatists  of  modern 
times,  as  well  as  the  classics,  for  their  pleasure  as  well  as  their 
cultivation.    .    .    .   Young    dramatists    should    have    a    theatre 
where  they  can  see  the  ripe  works  of  the  masters  and  see  them 
well  acted  at  a  moderate  price.    There  should  be  in  every  city 
a  theatre  where  we  can  see  the  best  drama  worthily  treated."  ^ 
Owing  to  war  conditions,  the  Manchester  project  has  had  to 
be  abandoned,   and  so,  for  the  most  part,  have  other  similar 
enterprises.     They  rarely  became  self-supporting,  but  depended 
on  subsidy  of  one  kind  or  another,  which  under  new  economic 
conditions  is  no  longer  forthcoming.    The  Birmingham  Reper- 
tory Theatre  continues,  however,  under  the  direction  of  John 
Drinkwater,  and  has  become  famous  through  its  production  of 
his  Abraham  Lincoln.     "  John  Drinkwater,  I  see,  has  recently 
defined  a  Repertory  Theatre,"  writes  William  Archer,  in  his 
latest  article  on  the  subject,  "  as  one  which  '  puts  plays  into 

^  Quoted    by   Percy   MacKaye    in    The    Civic    Theatre,    New   York, 

1912,  p.   114. 

="  P.  P.  Howe,  The  Repertory  Theatre,  New  York,  1911,  P-  59- 

'  A.    E.   F.    Horniman,    The   Manchester   Players,   Poet   Lore,    Vol. 

XXV,  No.  3,  p.  212;   p.  213. 


THEATRES  OF  TO-DAY  xxiii 

stock  which  are  good  enough  to  stay  there.'  Enlarging  this 
definition,  I  should  call  it  a  theatre  which  excluded  the  long 
unbroken  run ;  which  presents  at  least  three  different  pro- 
grams in  each  week  (though  a  popular  success  may  be  per- 
formed three  or  even  four  times  a  week  throughout  a  whole 
season)  ;  which  can  produce  plays  too  good  to  be  enormously 
popular;  which  makes  a  principle  of  keeping  alive  the  great 
drama  of  the  past,  whether  recent  or  remote;  which  has  a 
company  so  large  that  it  can,  without  overworking  its  actors, 
keep  three  or  four  plays  ready  for  instant  presentation ;  which 
possesses  an  ample  stage  equipped  with  the  latest  artistic  and 
labor-saving  appliances;  and  which  offers  such  comfort  in  front 
of  the  house  as  to  encourage  an  intelligent  public  to  make  it  an 
habitual  place  of  resort. 

"  That  there  exists  in  every  great  American  city  an  intelligent 
public  large  enough  to  support  one  or  more  such  playhouses  is 
to  my  mind  indisputable.  But  the  theatre  might  have  to  be 
run  at  a  loss  for  two  or  three  opening  seasons,  until  it  had 
attracted  and  educated  its  habitual  supporters.  For  even  a 
public  of  high  general  intelligence  needs  a  certain  amount  of 
special  education  in  things  of  the  theatre."  This  testimony  is 
in  a  highly  optimistic  vein. 

A  talk  with  B.  Iden  Payne,  once  director  of  the  Manchester 
Players,  reveals  the  fact  that  in  England  at  the  present  time 
the  repertory  idea  is  being  taken  over  with  more  promise  of 
success  by  the  small  groups  that  represent  the  Little  Theatre 
movement  in  that  country.  The  repertory  theatre  there  did 
succeed  in  arousing  in  the  locality  in  which,  for  the  time  being, 
it  existed  an  interest  in  intelligent  plays,  but  it  was  not  equally 
successful  in  confirming  a  distaste  for  unintelligent  plays.  The 
study  of  these  experiments  will  repay  Americans  who  are  in- 
terested in  seeing  the  repertory  idea  fostered  over  here  by  en- 
dowment or  otherwise. 


THE   LITTLE   THEATRE 

The  year  191 1  saw  the  beginning  in  the  United  States  of 
the  Little  Theatre  movement,  which  has  grown  with  phe- 
nomenal rapidity  and  has  spread  in  all  directions.  The  first 
Little  Theatres  in  this  country  were  located  in  large  cities;  but 
in  the  course  of  time  the  idea  has  penetrated  to  small  towns 


xxlv  INTRODUCTION 

and  rural  communities  all  over  the  United  States.  Barns, 
wharves,  saloons,  and  school  assembly  halls  have  been  trans- 
formed into  intimate  little  playhouses.  There  were  European 
precedents  for  this  idea.  The  Theatre  Libre,  opened  in  Paris 
in  1887  by  Andre  Antoine  as  a  protest  against  the  kind  of 
play  then  in  favor,  is  generally  called  the  first  of  this  type. 
In  the  years  from  1887  to  191 1  Little  Theatres  were  opened 
in  Russia,  in  Belgium,  in  Germany,  in  Sweden,  in  Hungary, 
in  England,  in  Ireland,  and  in  France.  In  Europe  these 
theatres  came  into  being,  generally  speaking,  in  order  to  give 
freer  play  to  the  new  arts  of  the  theatre  or  for  the  purpose 
of  encouraging  a  more  intellectual  type  of  drama  than  was  being 
produced  in  the  larger  houses. 

There  are  two  conceptions  of  the  Little  Theatre  current  in 
the  United  States.  According  to  one,  it  is  a  theatrical  organi- 
zation housed  in  a  simple  building,  that  makes  its  productions 
in  the  most  economical  way,  does  not  pay  its  actors,  does  not 
charge  admission,  and  uses  scenery  and  properties  that  are 
cheaply  manufactured  at  home. 

The  Little  Theatre  is,  however,  more  commonly  conceived 
of  as  a  repertory  theatre  supported  by  the  subscription  system, 
producing  its  plays  on  a  small  stage  in  a  small  hall,  selecting 
for  production  the  kind  of  play  not  likely  to  be  used  by  the 
Commercial  Theatre,  most  frequently  the  one-act  play,  and  com- 
mitted to  experiments  in  stage  decoration,  lighting,  and  the 
other  stage  arts.  The  Little  Theatre  and  the  one-act  play 
have  developed  each  other  reciprocally,  for  the  Little  Theatre 
has  encouraged  the  writing  of  one-act  plays  in  Europe  and  in 
this  country.  The  one-act  play  is  the  natural  unit  of  pro- 
duction in  the  Little  Theatre,  both  because  it  requires  a  less 
sustained  performance  from  the  actors,  who  have  frequently 
been  amateurs,  and  because  it  has  offered  in  the  same  evening 
several  opportunities  to  the  various  groups  of  artists  collabo- 
rating in  the  productions  of  the  Little  Theatre.  Though  the 
movement  has  had  the  effect  of  stimulating  community  spirit 
and  has  been  the  means  of  solving  grave  community  problems, 
the  Little  Theatre  is  not,  in  the  technical  sense,  a  community 
theatre;  in  the  sense,  that  is,  in  which  Percy  MacKaye  uses  the 
word.  It  is  not,  in  fact,  so  portentous  an  enterprise,  because  it 
does  not  enlist  the  participation  of  every  member  of  a  com- 
munity.    The  community  theatre  is  an  example  of  civic  co- 


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THEATRES  OF  TO-DAY  xxv 

operation  on  a  large  scale ;  the  Little  Theatre,  of  the  same  kind 
of  co-operation  on  a  small  scale. 

Notably  artistic  results  have  been  achieved  by  such  Little 
Theatres  as  The  Neighborhood  Playhouse  in  New  York,  built 
in  1914  by  the  Misses  Irene  and  Alice  Lewisohn,  in  connection 
with  the  social  settlement  idea,  to  provide  expression  for  the 
talents  of  a  community  that  had  been  previously  trained  in 
dramatic  classes  for  some  years;  by  the  Chicago  Little  Theatre, 
founded  in  191 1,  now  no  longer  in  existence,  but  for  a  few 
years  under  the  direction  of  Maurice  Browne,  a  disciple  of 
Gordon  Craig's;  by  the  Detroit  Theatre  of  Arts  and  Crafts, 
once  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Sam  Hume,  also  a  follower 
of  Gordon  Craig's;  by  the  Washington  Square  Players,  who 
during  several  seasons  in  New  York  gave  a  remarkable  impetus 
to  the  writing  of  one-act  plays  in  America;  by  the  Province- 
town  Players,  whose  first  productions  were  made  on  Cape  Cod, 
who  later  opened  a  small  playhouse  in  New  York,  and  who 
gave  the  public  an  opportunity  to  know  the  plays  of  Eugene 
O'Neill;  by  the  Portmanteau  Theatre  of  Stuart  Walker,  that 
uses  but  one  setting  in  its  productions,  but  varies  the  effect 
with  different  colored  lights,  and  as  its  name  implies,  is  port- 
able, one  of  the  few  of  its  kind  in  the  world ;  by  the  47  Work- 
shop Theatre  that  has  arisen  as  the  result  of  the  course  in  play- 
writing  given  at  Harvard  University  by  Professor  George  Pierce 
Baker,  and  the  productions  of  which  have  served  to  introduce 
many  new  writers;  and  by  the  Theatre  du  Vieux  Colombier, 
that  came  to  New  York  from  Paris  in  19 17,  and  remained  for 
two  seasons  to  illustrate  the  best  French  practice.  These 
theatres  also  enjoy  the  distinction  of  having  experimented  with 
repertory. 

The  Theatre  du  Vieux  Colombier  was  organized  and  is  di- 
rected by  Jacques  Copeau.  It  is  no  casual  amateur  experi- 
ment. Its  actors  are  professionals  and  its  director  is  a  scholar 
and  an  artist.  In  preparation  for  the  original  opening  the  com- 
pany went  into  the  country  and  established  a  little  colony. 
"  During  five  hours  of  each  day  they  studied  repertoire  but 
they  did  far  more.  They  performed  exercises  in  physical  cul- 
ture and  the  dance:  they  read  aloud  and  acted  improvised 
dramatic  scenes.  They  worked  thus  upon  their  bodies,  their 
voices  and  their  actions:  made  them  subtle  instruments  in  their 
command."     They  learned  that  in  an  artistic  production  every 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

gesture,  every  word,  every  line,  and  every  color  counted. 
Naturally  no  group  of  amateurs  or  semi-professionals  can  ap- 
proach the  results  of  a  company  trained  as  M.  Copeau's  is. 
When  he  was  over  here,  he  was  much  interested  in  our  Little 
Theatres.  He  said  in  one  of  his  addresses:  "All  the  little 
theatres  which  now  swarm  in  America,  ought  to  come  to  an 
understanding  among  themselves  and  unite,  instead  of  trying 
to  keep  themselves  apart  and  distinctive.  The  ideas  which  they 
possess  in  common  have  not  even  begun  to  be  put  into  execu- 
tion.   They  must  be  incorporated  into  life."  ^ 

The  native  Little  Theatres,  much  simpler  affairs  than  the 
Vieux  Colombier,  persist.  They  have  made  a  place  for  them- 
selves in  American  life,  among  the  farms,  in  the  suburbs,  in  the 
small  towns,  and  in  the  cities.  Sometimes,  no  doubt,  they  are 
like  the  one  in  Sinclair  Lewis's  Gopher  Prairie;  or  they  hardly 
outlast  a  season.  But  new  ones  spring  up  to  replace  those  that 
have  gone  out  of  existence,  and  meanwhile  the  ends  of  whole- 
some community  recreation  are  being  served. 

THE   IRISH    NATIONAL   THEATRE 

About  1890  began  the  movement  which  has  since  been 
known  as  the  Celtic  Renaissance,  a  movement  that  had  for  its 
object  the  lifting  into  literature  of  the  songs,  myths,  romances, 
and  legends  treasured  for  countless  generations  in  the  hearts 

^  The  kind  of  co-operation  to  which  he  looked  forward  is  beg:inning. 
For  instance,  the  New  York  Drama  League  announces  a  Little  Theatre 
membership.  "  Its  purpose  is  to  serve  the  needs  of  the  large  and  con- 
stantly growing  public  that  is  interested  in  the  activities  of  the  semi- 
professional  and  amateur  community  groups  who  read  or  produce 
plays.  Under  this  new  Membership  there  will  be  issued  monthly,  for 
ten  issues  a  Play  List  of  five  pages,  giving  a  concise  but  complete 
synopsis  of  new  plays,  both  one-act  and  longer  plays.  It  will  show 
the  number  of  characters  required;  the  kind  of  audience  to  which  the 
play  would  be  likely  to  appeal;  the  royalty  asked  for  production 
rights;  the  production  necessities  and  other  information  of  value  to 
production  groups  or  individuals.  One  page  will  be  devoted  to  three 
or  four  standard  older  plays  treated  with  the  same  detail  of  infor- 
mation. The  Little  Theatre  Supplement  .  .  .  will  continue  to  be 
issued  each  month,  but  will  hereafter  be  a  feature  of  the  Little  Theatre 
Membership  only.  It  will  contain  the  programs  of  the  Little  Theatres 
throughout  the  country;  short  accounts  of  what  is  going  on  among  the 
various  groups,  and  articles  on  Little  Theatre  problems,  with  hints  on 
new,  effective  and  economical  methods  of  production." 


THEATRES  OF  TO-DAY  xxvii 

of  the  Irish  peasantry.  In  the  same  decade  in  Great  Britain 
and  on  the  Continent,  tendencies  were  at  work  looking  to  the 
reform  of  the  drama  and  its  rescue  from  commercial  formulas. 
The  genesis  of  the  Irish  National  Theatre,  a  pioneer  in  the 
field  of  repertory  in  Great  Britain,  and  one  of  the  first  of  the 
Little  Theatres,  is  due  to  both  of  these  influences. 

Its  first  form  was  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre,  founded  in 
1899  by  Edward  Martyn,  the  author  of  The  Heather  Field 
and  Maeve,  George  Moore,  and  William  Butler  Yeats.  The 
first  play  produced  by  this  organization  was  Yeats's  Countess 
Cathleen.  This  enterprise  employed  only  English  actors,  and 
did  not  assume  to  be  purely  national  in  scope.  It  came  to  an 
end  in  October,  1901.  It  was  in  October,  1902,  that  in 
Samhain,  the  organ  of  the  Irish  National  Theatre,  William 
Butler  Yeats  made  the  following  announcement:  "The  Irish 
Literary  Theatre  has  given  place  to  a  company  of  Irish  actors." 
The  nucleus  of  this  new  Irish  National  Theatre  was  certain 
companies  of  amateurs  that  W.  G.  Fay  had  assembled. 
These  companies  were  composed  of  people  who  were  unable  to 
give  full  time  to  their  interest  in  the  drama,  but  who  came 
from  the  office  or  the  shop  to  rehearse  at  odd  moments  during 
the  day  and  in  the  evening.  The  Irish  National  Theatre  really 
developed  from  these  amateur  companies.  It  was  strictly  na- 
tional in  scope.  The  advisers,  who  were  to  include  Synge, 
Lady  Gregory,  Padraic  Colum,  William  Butler  Yeats,  and 
others,  looked  to  the  Irish  National  Theatre  to  bring  the  drama 
back  to  the  people,  to  whom  plays  dealing  with  society  life 
meant  nothing.  They  intended  also  that  their  plays  "  should 
give  them  [the  people]  a  quite  natural  pleasure,  should  either 
tell  them  of  their  own  life,  or  of  that  life  of  poetry  where 
every  man  can  see  his  own  magic,  because  there  alone  does 
human  nature  escape  from  arbitrary  conditions."  This  pro- 
gram has  been  carried  out  with  remarkable  success. 

October,  1902,  is  the  date  for  the  beginning  of  the  Irish 
National  Theatre.  At  first  W.  G.  Fay,  and  his  brother, 
Frank  Fay,  were  in  charge  of  the  productions,  the  former  as 
stage  manager.  Frank  Fay  had  charge  of  training  a  company, 
in  which  the  star  system  was  unknown.  He  had  studied 
French  methods  of  stage  diction  and  gesture,  and  the  Irish 
Players  are  generally  said  to  show  the  results  of  his  familiarity 
with  great  French  models.     In   19 13  a  school  of  acting  was 


xxvni  INTRODUCTION 

organized  in  order  to  perpetuate  the  tradition  created  by  the 
Fays. 

Among  the  most  famous  playwrights  who  have  written  for 
the  Irish  National  Theatre  are  Padraic  Colum,  John  Mill- 
ington  Synge,  William  Butler  Yeats,  Lady  Gregory,  St.  John 
G.  Ervine,  IE  (George  W.  Russell),  and  Lord  Dunsany. 
At  one  time  the  theatre  sent  out,  in  a  circular  addressed  to 
aspiring  authors  who  showed  promise,  the  following  counsel: 
"  A  play  to  be  suitable  for  performance  at  the  Abbey  should 
contain  some  criticism  of  life,  founded  on  the  experience  or 
personal  observation  of  the  writer,  or  some  vision  of  life,  of 
Irish  life  by  preference,  important  from  its  beauty  or  from 
some  excellence  of  style,  and  this  intellectual  quality  is  not 
more  necessary  to  tragedy  than  to  the  gayest  comedy."  ^ 

In  1904  the  Irish  National  Theatre  was  housed  for  the  first 
time  in  its  own  playhouse,  the  Abbey  Theatre.  This  change 
was  made  possible  by  the  generosity  of  Miss  A.  E.  F.  Horni- 
man,  who  saw  the  Irish  Players  when  they  first  went  to  London 
in  1903.  It  was  she  who  obtained  the  lease  of  the  Mechanics' 
Institute  in  Dublin,  increased  its  capacity,  and  rebuilt  it,  giving 
it  rent  free  to  the  Players  from  1904  to  1909,  in  addition  to 
an  annual  subsidy  which  she  allowed  them.  In  19 10  the 
Abbey  Theatre  was  bought  from  her  by  public  subscription. 
The  next  year,  the  Irish  Players  paid  their  famous  visit  to  the 
United  States. 

The  Irish  National  Dramatic  Com.pany  was  organized  as  a 
protest  against  current  theatrical  practices.  Its  founders  pur- 
posed to  reform  the  various  arts  of  the  theatre.  By  encour- 
aging native  playwrights  they  hoped  to  do  for  the  drama  of 
Ireland  what  Ibsen  and  other  writers  had  done  for  the  drama 
in  Scandinavian  countries,  where  people  go  to  the  theatre  to 
think  as  well  as  to  feel.  It  was  not  intended  in  any  sense 
that  these  new  Irish  players  were  to  serve  the  purpose  of 
propaganda;  truth  was  not  to  be  compromised  in  the  service 
of  a  cause.  Acting,  too,  was  to  be  improved:  redundant  gesture 
was  to  be  suppressed;  repose  was  to  be  given  its  full  value; 
speech  was  to  be  made  more  important  than  gesture.  Yeats 
in  particular  had  theories  as  to  the  way  in  which  verse  should 
be    spoken    on    the    stage;    he   advocated    a    cadenced    chant, 

^Lady  Gregory,  Our  Irish  Theatre,  New  York,  1913,  p.  loi. 


THE  NEW  ART  OF  THE  THEATRE        xxix 

monotonous  but  not  sing-song,  for  the  delivery  of  poetry.  The 
simplification  of  costume  and  setting  was  also  included  in  their 
scheme,  for  both  were  to  be  strictly  accessory  to  the  speech  and 
movement  of  the  characters. 

They  have  been  faithful  to  their  ideals.  The  performances 
at  the  Abbey  Theatre  continue,  although  from  time  to  time 
certain  of  the  most  eminent  actors  of  the  company  have  with- 
drawn, some  to  migrate  to  America.  Among  the  plays  pro- 
duced in  1919  and  1920  by  the  National  Theatre  Society  at 
the  Abbey  Theatre  are  W.  B.  Yeats's  The  Land  of  Heart's 
Desire,  G.  B.  Shaw's  Androcles  and  the  Lion,  Lady  Gregory's 
The  Dragon,  and  Lord  Dunsany's  The  Glittering  Gate. 

^  THE  NEW  ART  OF   THE   THEATRE 

There  are  certain  facts  about  the  artistic  transformation  that 
the  theatre  is  undergoing  in  the  twentieth  century  with  which 
students  of  the  drama  need  to  be  familiar  in  order  to  picture 
for  themselves  how  plays  can  be  interpreted  by  means  of  design, 
color,  and  light.  The  transformation  is  definitely  connected 
with  a  few  famous  names.  In  Europe  two  men,  Edward 
Gordon  Craig  and  Max  Reinhardt,  stand  out  as  reformers  in 
matters  connected  with  the  construction,  the  lighting,  and  the 
design  of  stage  settings.  In  this  country  the  artists  of  the 
theatre  are,  generally  speaking,  disciples  of  one  or  both  of  these 
great  Europeans  and  their  colleagues.  The  new  stage  artist 
studies  the  characterization  and  the  situations  in  the  play,  the 
production  of  which  he  is  directing,  and  tries  to  make  his  set- 
ting suggestive  of  the  physical  and  emotional  atmosphere  in 
which  the  action  of  the  drama  moves. 

Gordon  Craig  has  written  several  books  and  many  articles 
embodying  his  ideas  on  play  production.  In  all  his  writings 
he  emphasizes  the  importance  of  having  one  individual  with 
complete  authority  and  complete  knowledge  in  charge  of  co- 
ordinating and  subordinating  the  various  arts  that  go  to  make 
the  production  of  a  play  a  symmetrical  whole,  his  theory  being 
that  there  is  no  one  art  that  can  be  called  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  others  the  Art  of  the  Theatre:  not  the  acting,  not  the  play, 
not  the  setting,  not  the  dance ;  but  that  all  these  properly  har- 
monized through  the  personality  of  the  director  become  the  Art 
of  the  Theatre. 


XXX  INTRODUCTION 

The  kind  of  setting  that  has  become  identified  in  the  popular 
mind  with  Gordon  Craig  is  the  simple  monochrome  back- 
ground composed  either  of  draperies  or  of  screens.  It  is  un- 
fortunate that  this  popular  idea  should  be  so  limited  because, 
of  course,  the  name  of  Gordon  Craig  should  carry  with  it  the 
suggestion  of  an  infinite  variety  of  ways  of  interpreting  the 
play  through  design.  His  screens,  built  to  stand  alone,  vary 
in  number  from  one  to  four  and  sometimes  have  as  many  as 
ten  leaves.  They  are  either  made  of  solid  wood  or  are  wooden 
frames  covered  with  canvas.  The  screens  with  narrow  leaves 
may  be  used  to  produce  curved  forms,  and  screens  with  broad 
leaves  to  enclose  large  rectangular  spaces.  The  screens  are  one 
form  of  the  setting  composed  of  adjustable  units,  which  can 
be  adapted  in  an  infinite  variety  of  ways  to  the  needs  of  the 
play. 

The  new  ideas  in  European  stagecraft  began  to  be  popu- 
larized in  America  in  the  year  1914-15,  when  under  the  aus- 
pices of  the  Stage  Society,  Sam  Hume,  now  teaching  the  arts 
of  the  theatre  at  the  University  of  California,  and  Kenneth 
Macgowan,  the  dramatic  critic,  arranged  an  exhibition  that 
was  shown  in  New  York,  Chicago,  and  other  great  centres, 
of  new  stage  sets  designed  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones,  Sam 
Hume,  and  others  who  have  since  become  famous.  The  models 
displayed  on  this  occasion  brought  before  the  public  for  the 
first  time  the  new  method  of  lighting  which,  as  much  as  any- 
thing else,  differentiates  the  new  theatre  art  from  the  old.  It 
introduced  the  device  of  a  concave  back  wall  made  of  plaster, 
sometimes  called  by  its  German  name  "  horizont,"  and  a  light- 
ing equipment  that  would  dye  this  plaster  horizon  with  colors 
that  melted  into  one  another  like  the  colors  in  the  sky;  a  stage 
with  "  dimmers  "  for  every  circuit  of  lights,  and  sockets  for 
high-power  lamps  at  any  spot  from  the  stage. 

In  the  same  year  that  the  Stage  Society  showed  Robert 
Edmond  Jones's  models,  he  was  given  an  opportunity  to  design 
the  settings  and  costumes  for  Granville  Barker's  production  of 
Anatole  France's  The  Man  Who  Married  a  Dumb  Wife, 
which  may  be  said  to  have  advertised  the  new  practices  in 
America  more  than  any  other  single  production. 

Writing  of  his  own  work  shortly  after,  Mr.  Jones  says: 
"  While  the  scenery  of  a  play  is  truly  important,  it  should  be 
so  important  that  the  audience  should  forget  that  it  is  present. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  A  room  in  Belmont.  Design  by  Robert 
Edmond  Jones.  A  great  round  window  framed  in  the  heavy 
molding  of  Mantegna   and   the   pale  clear   sky  of  Northern   Italy. 


THE  NEW  ART  OF  THE  THEATRE        xxxi 

There  should  be  fusion  between  the  play  and  the  scenery. 
Scenery  isn't  there  to  be  looked  at,  it's  really  there  to  be 
forgotten.  The  drama  is  a  fire,  the  scenery  is  the  air  that  lifts 
the  fire  and  makes  it  bright.  .  .  .  The  audience  that  is 
always  conscious  of  the  back  drop  is  paying  a  doubtful  compli- 
ment to  the  painter.  .  .  .  Even  costumes  should  be  the 
handiwork  of  the  scenic  artist.  Yes,  and  if  possible,  he  should 
build  the  very  furniture."  ^  Robert  Edmond  Jones  has  not 
only  designed  settings  and  costumes  for  poetic  and  fantastic 
forms  of  drama,  but  he  has  also  been  called  upon  to  plan  the 
productions  of  realistic  modern  plays. 

Three  of  his  designs  introducing  three  different  aspects  of  his 
work  have  been  here  reproduced.  The  model  for  Maeterlinck's 
The  Seven  Princesses  is  an  example  of  an  attempt  to  present 
the  essential  significant  structure  of  a  setting  in  the  simplest 
way  conceivable  and  by  so  doing  to  stimulate  the  imagination 
of  the  spectator  to  create  for  itself  the  imaginative  environ- 
ment of  the  play.  His  design  for  a  room  in  Belmont  for  The 
Merchant  of  Venice  shows  a  great  round  window  framed  in 
the  heavy  molding  of  Mantegna  and  the  pale,  clear  sky  of 
Northern  Italy.  The  scene  for  Good  Gracious  Annabelle  is  a 
corridor  in  an  hotel.  This  scene  is  a  typical  example  of  a 
more  or  less  abstract  rendering  of  a  literal  scene.  It  was  de- 
signed primarily  with  the  idea  of  giving  as  many  dift'erent  exits 
and  entrances  as  possible,  in  order  that  the  action  of  the  drama 
might  be  swift  and  varied.- 

When  Sam  Hume  was  connected  with  the  Detroit  Theatre 
of  Arts  and  Crafts,  he  used  a  symbolic  and  suggestive  method 
for  the  setting  of  poetic  plays  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  in 
no  definite  locality.  In  this  theatre  he  installed  a  permanent 
setting,  including  the  following  units:  "Four  pylons  [square 
pillars],  constructed  of  canvas  on  wooden  frames,  each  of  the 
three  covered  faces  measuring  two  and  one-half  by  eighteen 
feet;  two  canvas  flats  each  three  by  eighteen  feet;  two  sections 
of  stairs  three  feet  long,  and  one  section  eight  feet  long,  of 
uniform  eighteen-inch  height;  three  platforms  of  the  same 
height,  respectively  six,  eight,  and  twelve  feet  long;  dark  green 

^  Robert  Edmond  Jones,  The  Future  Decorative  Art  of  the  Theatre, 
Theatre  Magazine,  Vol.  XXV,  May,  1917,  p.  266. 

*  Robert  Ednaond  Jones  himself  has  suggested  the  phrasing  of  these 
descriptions. 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

hangings  as  long  as  the  pylons;  two  folding  screens  for  mask- 
ing, covered  with  the  same  cloth  as  that  used  in  the  hangings, 
and  as  high  as  the  pylons;  and  two  irregular  tree  forms  in 
silhouette. 

"  The  pylons,  flats,  and  stairs,  and  such  added  pieces  as  the 
arch  and  window,  were  painted  in  broken  color  .  .  .  ^  so 
that  the  surfaces  would  take  on  any  desired  color  under  the 
proper  lighting."  ^  The  economy  of  this  method  is  illustrated 
by  the  fact  that  in  one  season  nineteen  plays  were  given  in  the 
Arts  and  Crafts  Theatre  at  Detroit,  and  the  settings  for  eleven 
of  these  were  merely  rearrangements  of  the  permanent  setting. 
This  kind  of  setting  is  sometimes  called  "  plastic  " — a  term 
which  refers  to  the  fact  that  the  separate  units  are  in  the 
round,  and  not  flat.  The  effect  secured  in  settings  represent- 
ing outdoor  scenes  was  made  possible  only  by  the  use  of  a 
plaster  horizon  of  the  general  type  described  in  connection  with 
the  exhibition  of  the  Stage  Society. 

Robert  Edmond  Jones  and  Sam  Hume  are  two  of  an  in- 
creasingly large  number  of  artists  in  America,  among  whom 
should  be  mentioned  Norman-bel  Geddes,  Maurice  Browne, 
and  Lee  Simonson,  who  are  experimenting  with  design,  color, 
and  light.  Underlying  the  work  of  all  of  these  is  the  belief 
that  the  whole  production,  the  play,  the  acting,  the  lighting, 
and  the  setting,  should  be  unified  by  some  one  dominating 
mood.  In  the  work  of  these  new  artists,  there  is  no  place 
for  the  old-fashioned  painted  back  drop,  the  use  of  which 
emphasizes  the  disparity  between  the  painted  and  the  actual 
perspective,  though  their  backgrounds  are  by  no  means  neces- 
sarily either  screens  or  draperies.  Another  new  style  of  back- 
ground is  the  skeleton  setting,  a  permanent  structural  founda- 
tion erected  on  the  stage,  which  through  the  addition  of 
draperies  and  movable  properties,  or  the  variation  of  lights, 
or  the  manipulation  of  screens,  may  serve  for  all  the  scenes 
of  a  play.  A  permanent  structure  of  this  sort,  representing 
the  Tower  of  London,  was  used  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones  in 
a  recent  production  of  Richard  III  in  New  York,  at  the 
Plymouth  Theatre.  When  Jacques  Copeau  conducted  the 
Theatre  du  Vieux  Colombier  in  New  York  he  had  a  per- 
manent structure  built  on  the  stage  of  the  Garrick  Theatre, 

^  See  p.  xxxiii. 

^  Sheldon  Cheney,  The  Art  Theatre,  New  York,  1917,  pp.  167-168. 


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THE  NEW  ART  OF  THE  THEATRE      xxxiii 

that  he  used  for  all  the  plays  he  produced;  at  times  the  upper 
half  of  the  stage  was  masked,  at  times  the  recess  back  of  the 
two  central  columns  was  used.  The  aspect  of  the  stage  was 
often  completely  changed  by  the  addition  of  tapestries,  stairs, 
panels,  screens,  and  furniture. 

In  the  description  of  the  equipment  of  the  Detroit  Theatre 
of  Arts  and  Crafts,  reference  has  been  made  to  a  method  of 
painting  the  plastic  units  in  broken  color.  This  is  so  impor- 
tant a  principle  that  it  should  be  more  generally  understood 
by  those  who  are  interested  in  the  theatre.  The  principle  was 
put  into  operation  by  the  Viennese  designer,  Joseph  Urban. 
In  practice  it  means  that  a  canvas  painted  with  red  and  with 
green  spots  upon  which  a  red  light  is  played,  throws  up  only  the 
red  spots  blended  so  as  to  produce  a  red  surface,  and  that 
the  same  canvas  under  a  green  light  shows  a  green  surface; 
and,  if  both  kinds  of  lights  are  used,  then  both  the  green  and 
red  spots  are  brought  out,  according  to  the  proportion  of  the 
mixture  of  green  and  red  in  the  light. 

Color  is  being  used  now  not  only  for  decorative  purposes, 
but  also  symbolically.  The  decorative  use  of  color  on  the 
stage  is,  obviously,  like  the  decorative  use  of  color  in  the  design 
of  textiles,  or  stained  glass,  or  posters.  The  symbolic  use  of 
color  is  less  easy  to  interpret,  but  it  is  plain  that  in  most  peo- 
ple's minds  red  is  connected  with  excitement  and  frenzy,  and 
blues  and  grays,  with  an  atmosphere  of  mystery.  This  is  a 
very  bald  suggestion  of  some  of  the  very  subtle  things  that 
have  been  done  with  color  on  the  modern  stage. 

The  new  methods  of  stage  lighting  make  possible  all  kinds 
of  color  combinations  and  effects.  The  use  of  the  plaster 
horizon  (or  of  the  cyclorama,  a  cheaper  substitute,  usually  a 
straight  semi-circular  curtain  enclosing  the  stage,  made  of  either 
white  or  light  blue  cloth),  combined  with  high-powered  lights 
set  at  various  angles  on  the  stage,  makes  outdoor  effects  pos- 
sible, the  beauty  of  which  is  new  to  the  theatre.^  Nowadays 
footlights  are  not  invariably  discarded,  but  where  they  are 
used  they  are  wired  so  that  groups  of  them  can  be  lighted 
when  other  sections  are  dimmed  or  darkened.  When  the  set- 
ting shows  an  interior  scene  with  a  window,  though  the  scene 
may  be  lighted  from  all  sides,   the  window  seems  to  be  the 

^  For  a  description  of  modern  lighting  equipment  for  a  Little  Theatre 
compare  the  section  on  the  Theatre  in  the  School  in  this  introduction. 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

source  of  all  light.  A  good  deal  of  the  lighting  on  the  stage 
is  what  is  known  in  the  interior  decoration  of  houses  as  in- 
direct lighting;  colored  lights  are  produced  most  simply  by  the 
interposition  between  the  source  of  light  and  the  stage  of 
transparent  colored  slides,  gelatine  or  glass. 

In  any  production  that  is  made  under  the  influence  of  the 
new  stagecraft,  the  costumes,  like  the  setting  of  the  play,  are 
considered  in  connection  with  the  resources  of  lighting.  The 
costumes,  whether  historically  correct  or  historically  suggestive, 
whether  of  a  period  or  conventionalized,  are  conceived  in  their 
three-fold  relation  to  the  characters  of  the  play,  the  back- 
ground, and  the  scheme  of  lights,  by  the  designer  or  the  di- 
rector under  whose  general  supervision  the  play  is  staged. 

In  general,  American  audiences  are  hardly  conscious  of  the 
existence  of  these  reforms.  Here  and  there,  it  is  true,  the 
manager  of  a  commercial  theatre  or  an  opera  house  has  called 
in  an  artist  to  supervise  his  productions  and  has  thus  given 
publicity  to  the  new  way  of  making  the  arts  of  the  theatre 
work  together.  Certain  Little  Theatres,  also,  have  educated 
their  followers  in  the  significance  of  the  new  use  of  light  and 
design  to  represent  the  mood  of  a  play.  The  demands  that  the 
new  method  makes  on  craftsmanship  have  also  commended  it 
to  students  in  schools  and  colleges  interested  in  play  produc- 
tion. Both  the  Little  Theatres  and  the  school  theatres  are 
doing  a  real  service  when  they  educate  their  communities  in 
these  new  arts,  for  not  only  will  this  education  increase  the 
capacity  of  these  particular  audiences  to  enjoy  the  good  things 
of  the  theatre,  but  the  influence  of  these  groups  is  bound  in 
the  long  run  to  popularize  the  new  stagecraft. 

PLAYMAKING 

Shortly  before  the  death  of  William  Dean  Howells,  he  re- 
lated the  experience  that  he  had  had  of  being  circularized  by 
a  correspondence  school  that  offered  to  teach  him  the  art  of 
writing  fiction  in  a  phenomenally  short  time  at  a  ridiculously 
low  rate.  In  this  instance,  there  was  something  wrong  with 
the  mailing  list,  but  the  fact  remains  that  in  universities  suc- 
cessful courses  in  writing  short-stories  and  plays  are  given  and 
the  best  of  these  courses  actually  have  turned  out  writers  who 
achieve  various  degrees  of  success  financially  and  artistically. 


Courtesy   of  Theatre   Arts  Magazine 

The  Seven  Princesses.     Design  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones.     An  example  of  the 
attempt  to  present  the  essential  significant  structure  of  a  setting  in  the  simplest 
way  conceivable  and  by  so  doing  to  stimulate  the  imagination  of  the  spectator 
to  create  for  itself  the  imaginative  environment  of  the  play. 


PLAYMAKING  xxxv 

It  is  plain  that  a  brief  treatise  like  the  present  one  makes  no 
such  pretensions;  it  means  merely  to  suggest  some  of  the  most 
obvious  points  of  departure  for  students  in  the  drama  who  wish 
to  exercise  themselves  in  the  composition  of  the  one-act  play, 
much  as  a  student  of  poetry  will  try  his  hand  at  a  ballade  or 
a  sonnet  without  taking  himself  or  his  metrical  exercises  too 
seriously. 

In  the  famous  Perse  School  in  Cambridge,  England,  the 
boys  begin  at  the  age  of  twelve  to  practise  playmaking  as  an 
aid  to  the  fuller  understanding  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  work- 
manship, and  this  work  is  developed  throughout  the  rest  of  the 
course.  The  boys,  having  learned  that  Shakespeare  himself 
used  stories  that  he  found  ready  to  hand,  discover  in  their  own 
reading  a  story  that  will  lend  itself  to  dramatization.  The 
story  is  told  and  retold  from  every  angle.  The  class  is  then 
divided  up  into  committees  to  every  one  of  which  is  entrusted 
some  part  of  the  dramatization.  One  little  committee  busies 
itself  with  the  setting,  another  with  the  structure,  another  with 
the  comic  characters,  another  with  the  songs  that  are  inter- 
spersed and  so  on.  These  committees  prepare  rough  notes,  to 
be  presented  in  class.  These  notes  may  propose  an  outline  of 
successive  scenes,  present  the  part  of  some  principal  character, 
or  the  "business"  (illustrative  action)  of  some  minor  part. 
Lessons  of  this  sort  are  followed  by  composition  rehearsals, 
where  the  dramatic  and  literary  value  of  the  proposed  plot, 
characterization,  pantomime,  and  dialogue  are  tested,  and  sub- 
jected to  the  criticism  of  teacher  and  boys.  In  the  next  les- 
sons, the  teacher  brings  to  bear  on  the  special  problems  on 
which  the  boys  are  working  all  the  criticism  that  his  wider 
range  of  reading  and  experience  can  suggest.  In  the  light 
of  his  suggestions  the  various  points  are  debated  and  the  boys 
then  proceed  to  careful  fashioning,  shaping,  and  writing.  A 
rehearsal  of  the  nearly  finished  product  is  held,  followed  by  a 
final  revision  of  the  text.  The  work  then  goes  forward  to 
a  public  performance  given  w^ith  all  due  ceremony.  In  the 
higher  classes  playmaking  is  taught  more  especially  in  connec- 
tion with  writing  and  the  boys  are  trained  to  imitate  the  style 
of  various  dramatists.  Synge  was  used  as  a  model  at  one  time 
for,  as  one  of  the  masters  of  the  school  explained:  "  The  style 
of  Synge  is  easy  to  copy  because  it  is  so  largely  composed  of 
a  certain  phraseology.    The  same  words,  phrases,  and  turns  of 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

sentence  occur  again  and  again.  Here  are  a  few  taken  at 
random ;  the  reader  will  find  them  in  a  context  on  almost  any 
page  of  the  plays:  It's  ?nyself — Is  it  me  fight  him? — I'm  think- 
ing— It's  a  poor  {fine,  great,  hard,  etc.)  thing — A  little  path 
I  have — Let  you  come — God  help  us  all — Till  Tuesday  was 
a  week — The  end  of  time — The  dawn  of  day — Let  on — 
Kindly — Nozu,  as  in  JValk  out  now — Surely — Maybe — Itself 
— At  all — Afeard — Destroyed — //  curse.  Synge  is  also  mighty 
fond  of  the  words  ditch  and  ewe.  And  there  are  certain  forms 
of  rhythm  about  Synge's  prose  which  are  used  with  equal  fre- 
quency, and  are  quick  and  easy  to  catch.  So  far  from  this  imita- 
tion of  style  being  an  artificial  method,  the  fact  is  that  once  a  boy 
of  sixteen  or  over  has  read  a  play  or  two  of  Synge's,  if  he  has 
any  power  of  style  in  him,  it  will  be  all  but  impossible  to  stop 
him  writing  like  Synge  for  a  few  weeks."  Learning  playwrit- 
ing  from  models  recalls  the  method  of  Benjamin  Franklin  and 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  who  in  their  youth  wrote  slavish  imi- 
tations of  the  great  masters  in  order  to  form  their  own  prose 
style.  Of  course,  it  is  not  claimed  that  this  work  at  the  Perse 
School  makes  playwrights,  only  that  it  gives  the  boys  a  deeper 
appreciation  of  dramatic  workmanship  and  furnishes  a  new 
kind  of  intellectual  game  to  add  to  the  joy  of  school  life. 

The  one-act  plays  contained  in  this  collection  are,  as  has 
been  suggested  in  what  has  been  said  about  their  construction, 
illustrative  of  various  kinds  of  workmanship.  Certain  of  them 
are  excellent  models  for  those  who  are  experimenting  with 
playwriting.  The  one-act  play,  not  nearly  so  difficult  a  form 
as  the  full-length  play,  offers  undergraduates  in  school  and 
college  and  inexperienced  writers  generally  unlimited  scope  ior 
experiment. 

The  testimony  of  Lord  Dunsany  is  to  the  effect  that  his  play 
is  made  when  he  has  discovered  a  motive.  Asked  whether  he 
always  began  with  a  motive,  "  '  Not  always,'  he  said ;  '  I  begin 
with  anything  or  next  to  nothing.  Then  suddenly,  I  get  started, 
and  go  through  in  a  hurry.  The  main  point  is  not  to  interrupt 
a  mood.  Writing  is  an  easy  thing  when  one  is  going  strong 
and  going  fast;  it  becomes  a  hard  thing  only  when  the  onward 
rush  is  impeded.  Most  of  my  short  plays  have  been  written  in 
a  sitting  or  two.'  "  ^     This  passage  is  quoted  because  insight 

^  Clayton  Hamilton,  Seen  on  the  Stage,  New  York,  1920,  p.  239. 


PLAYMAKING  xxxvii 

into  the  practice  of  professional  writers  is  always  helpful  to 
amateurs.  Dunsany  uses  "  motive,"  it  seems,  as  a  convenient 
term  for  denoting  the  idea,  the  character,  the  incident  or  the 
mood  that  impels  the  dramatist  to  start  writing  a  play.  Such 
material  is  to  be  found  everywhere.  Many  professional  writers 
accumulate  vast  stores  of  such  themes  against  the  day  when  they 
may  have  the  necessary  leisure,  energy,  and  insight  to  develop 
them. 

It  has  been  pointed  out  that  there  are  only  thirty-six  possible 
dramatic  situations  in  any  case,  and  that  no  matter  how  the 
plot  shapes  itself,  it  is  bound  to  classify  itself  somehow  or 
other  as  one  of  the  inescapable  thirty-six.  There  is  comfort 
also  in  the  suggestion  that  Shakespeare  drew  practically  all  the 
dramatic  material  that  he  used  so  transcendently  direct  from 
the  familiar  and  accessible  narrative  stores  of  his  day.  The 
young  or  inexperienced  playwright  need  have  no  hesitation, 
then,  in  turning  to  such  sources  as  the  Greek  myths  for  inspira- 
tion. Quite  recently  a  highly  successful  one-act  play  of  Phillip 
Moeller's  proved  that  Helen  of  Troy  is  as  eternally  interesting 
as  she  is  perenially  beautiful.  Maurice  Baring  draws  on  the 
old  Greek  stories,  too,  for  several  of  his  Diminutive  Dramas. 
The  Bible  has  proved  dramatically  suggestive  to  Lord  Dunsany 
and  to  Stephen  Phillips.  The  old  ballads  of  Fair  Annie  and 
The  Wife  of  Usher  s  Well  have  been  found  dramatically 
available.  The  myths  of  the  old  Norse  Gods,  used  by  Richard 
Wagner  for  his  music  dramas,  contain  much  unmined  dramatic 
gold.  John  Masefield  and  Sigurjonsson  have  converted  Saga 
material  to  the  uses  of  the  drama.  In  old  English  litera- 
ture, in  Widsith,  in  the  Battle  of  Brunanbtirh,  the  seeking 
dramatist  may  find.  The  romances  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the 
fairy  lore  of  all  peoples,  and  the  old  Hindu  animal  fables 
are  fertile  in  suggestion  to  the  intending  dramatist.  What 
a  wonderful  one-act  play,  steeped  in  the  mellow  atmosphere 
of  the  Renaissance  in  Italy,  might  be  made  out  of  Browning's 
My  Last  Duchess!  At  least  one  new  literary  precedent 
has  recently  been  created  by  the  author  who  wrote  a  sequel 
to  Dombey  and  Son.  Certainly  many  famous  novels  and 
plays  may  be  conceived  as  calling  out  for  similar  treatment 
at  the  hands  of  the  experimental  playwright.  Famous  literary 
and  historic  characters  offer  themselves  as  promising  dramatic 
material.    When  Robert  Emmons  Rogers,  author  of  the  well- 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

known  play,  Behind  a  IVatteau  Picture,  was  a  sophomore  at 
Harvard,  he  wrote  the  following  charming  little  play  on  Shake- 
speare which  is  reprinted  here,  with  the  author's  permission,  as 
a  pleasing  example  of  a  promising  piece  of  apprentice  work:  ^ 


THE  BOY  WILL 

Within  the  White  Luces  Inn  on  a  late  afternoon  in  spring, 
1582.  The  room  is  of  heavy-beamed  dark  oak,  stained  by 
age  and  smoke,  with  a  great,  hooded  fireplace  on  the  left. 
At  the  back  is  a  door  ivith  the  upper  half  thrown  back, 
and  two  ivide  windoivs  through  whose  open  lattices,  over- 
groian  with  columbine,  one  can  see  the  fresh  country  side 
in  the  setting  sun.  Under  them  are  broad  window  seats. 
At  the  right,  a  door  and  a  tall  dresser  filled  with  pewter 
plates  and  tankards.  A  couple  of  chairs,  a  stool  and  a 
low  table  stand  about.  Anne,  a  slim  girl  of  sixteen,  is 
mending  the  fire.  MASTER  George  Peele,  a  bold  and 
comely  young  man,  in  worn  riding  dress  and  spattered 
boots,  sprawls  against  the  disordered  table.  Giles,  a 
plump  and  peevish  old  rogue  in  tapster's  cap  and  apron, 
stands  by  the  door  looking  out. 

Peele   [rousing  himself].     Giles!     Gi-les! 

Giles  [hurries  to  him].  What  more,  zur?  Wilt  ha'  the 
pastry  or — ? 

Peele.    Another  quart  of  sack. 

Giles.  Yus,  zur!  Anne,  bist  asleep?  [The  girl  rises 
slowly.] 

Anne  [takes  the  tankard].     He  hath  had  three  a'ready. 

Peele  [cheerfully].  And  shall  have  three  more  so  I  will. 
This  player's  life  of  mine  is  a  weary  one. 

Anne  [pertly].    And  a  thirsty  one,  too,  methinks. 

^  Robert  Emmons  Rogers,  President  of  the  Boston  Drama  League 
and  Assistant  Professor,  specializing  in  modern  literature  and  drama 
in  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of  Technology,  was  born  in  Haddon- 
field,  New  Jersey,  in  1888.  He  writes  that  his  Anne  Hathaway  "  was 
a  particularly  wild  idealization  based  on  Miss  Adams  as  Peter  Pan," 
and  that  even  at  eighteen  he  knew  that  his  portrait  of  the  girl,  who 
was  to  be  Shakespeare's  wife,  was  not  historically  correct.  Permission 
to  perform  the  play  must  be  secured  from  the  author. 


THE  BOY  WILL  xxxix 

Giles  [scandalized].  Come,  wench!  Ha'  done  gawking 
about,  and  haste!  [Anne  goes  at  right.]  'Er  be  a  forrard 
gel,  zur,  though  bendy.  I  be  glad  'er's  none  o'  mine,  but  my 
brother's  in  Shottery.  He  canna  say  I  love  'is  way  o'  making 
wenches  so  saucy. 

Peele.  a  pox  on  you!  The  best-spirited  maid  I  ha'  seen 
in  Warwickshire,  I  say.  Forward?  Man  alive,  wouldst  have 
her  like  your  blowsy  wenches  here,  that  lie  i'  the  sun  all  day? 
I  have  seen  no  one  so  comely  since  I  left  London. 

Giles  [feebly].     But  'ere,  zur,  in  Stratford — 

Peele  [iiotly].  Stratford?  I  doubt  if  God  made  Strat- 
ford !  Another  day  here  and  I  should  die  in  torment.  Your 
grass  lanes,  your  rubbly  houses,  fat  burgesses,  old  women,  5'our 
young  clouter-heads  who  have  no  care  for  a  bravely  acted 
stage-play.  [Bitingly.]  "  Can  any  good  come  out  of  Strat- 
ford?" 

Giles.  Noa,  Maister  Peele!  Others  ha'  spoke  more 
fairl}' — 

Veei.e  [impatiently].  My  sack,  man  !  Is  the  girl  a-brewing  it? 

Giles.    Anne!  Anne!    (I'll  learn  she  to  mess  about.)    Anne! 

Anne  [hurries  in  and  serves  Peele].     I  heard  you. 

Giles.  Then  whoi  cunst  thee  not  bustle?  Be  I  to  lose  my 
loongs  over  'ee? 

Anne  [simply].  Mistress  Shakespeare  called  me  to  the 
butt'ry  door.  Will  hath  not  been  home  all  day,  and  she  is 
fair  anxious.     She  bade  me  send  him  home  once  I  saw  him. 

Peele  [drinking  noisily].  Who  is  it?  [Anne  is  clearing 
the  table.] 

Giles   [shortly].     Poor  John  Shakespeare's  son  Will. 

Peele.    A  Stratford  lad?    A  straw-headed  beater  of  clods! 

Giles.  Nay,  zur.  A  wild  young  un,  as  'ull  do  noa  honest 
work,  but  dreams  the  day  long,  or  poaches  the  graat  woods  wi' 
young  loons  o'  like  stomach. 

Anne  [indignantly,  dropping  a  dish].  It's  not  true!  He 
Is  no  poacher. 

Peele   [grinning].     What  a  touchy  lass!     No  poacher,  eh? 

Anne.  Nay,  sir,  but  the  brightest  lad  in  Stratford,  He 
hath  learning  beyond  the  rest  of  us — and  if  he  likes  to  wander 
i'  the  woods,  'tis  for  no  ill — he  loves  the  open  air — and  you 
should  hear  the  little  songs  he  makes! 

Peele.     Do  all  the  lads  find  in  you  such  a  defender,  or 


xl  INTRODUCTION 

only — ?  [She  turns  away.]  Nay,  no  offense!  I  should  like 
to  see  this  Will. 

Giles  [gruinpily].  'E  'ave  noa  will  to  help  'is  father  in 
these  sorry  times,  but  ever  gawks  at  stage-plays.  'E  'ull  come 
to  noa  good  end.     {The  player  starts  up.] 

Peele.     Stage-plays — no  good  end?     Have  a  care,  man! 

Giles.  Nay,  zur — noa  harm,  zur!  I — I — canna  bide 
longer.     \Backs  out.] 

Anne  [at  the  window,  wonderingly].  He  should  be  here. 
He  hath  never  lingered  till  sunset  before.  [Peele  comes  up 
behind  her.] 

Peele.    Troubled,  lass? 

Anne.     Nay,  sir,  but — but —     [Suddenly]  Listen! 

Peele  [blankly].     To  what?     [A  faint  singing  without.] 

Anne   [eagerly].     Canst  hear  nothing — a  lilt  afar  off? 

Peele  [nodding].     Like  a  May-day  catch?     I  hear  it. 

Anne.  'Tis  Will!  Cousin,  Will  is  coming.  [Giles  comes 
back.] 

Giles  [peevishly].  I  canna  help  it.  Byunt  'e  later'n 
common  ? 

A  Voice.     [The  clear,  boyish  singing  is  coming  very  near.] 

When  springtime  frights  the  winter  cold,  5 

(Hark  to  the  children  singing!) 
The  cowslip  turns  the  fields  to  gold, 

The  bird  from  's  nest  is  winging — 

Peele.    Look  you !    There  the  boy  comes. 

Anne  [leaning  out  the  window].  Isn't  he  coming  here? 
Will!  Will!  [He  passes  by  the  window  singing  the  last 
words 

Young  hearts  are  gay,  while  yet  'tis  May, 
Hark  to  the  children  singing! 
and  leaps  in  over  the  lower  part  of  the  door,  a  sturdy,  ruddy 
boy,  with  merry  face  and  a  mop  of  brown  hair.     Anne  greets 
him  with  outstretched  hands.] 

Anne   [reproachfully].   Will!   Thy  mother  was  so  anxious! 

Will.  I  did  na'  think.  I  ha'  been  in  the  woods  all  day  and 
forgot  everything  till  the  sun  set. 

Anne.    All  the  day  long?    Thou  must  be  weary. 

Will  [frankly].     Nay,  not  very  weary — but  hungry. 

Anne.    Poor  boy.     He  shall  have  his  supper  now. 


THE  BOY  WILL  xli 

Giles  [protesting^.  'E  be  alius  eating  'ere,  and  I  canna 
a-bear  it.     Let  him  sup  at  his  own  whoam. 

Will  [shaking  his  head],  I  dare  na  go  home,  for  na  doubt 
my  father'll  beat  me  rarely.  I'll  bide  here  till  he  be  asleep. 
[He  places  himself  easily  in  the  armchair  by  the  fire.\ 

Giles  [going  sulkily].    Thriftless  young  loon! 

Anne  [laying  the  table].     Hast  had  a  splendid  day? 

Will  [absently].  Aye.  In  the  great  park  at  Charlecote. 
There  you  can  lie  on  your  back  in  the  grass  under  the  high 
arches  of  the  trees,  where  the  sun  rarely  peeps  in,  and  you  can 
listen  to  the  wind  in  the  trees,  and  see  it  shake  the  blossoms 
about  you,  and  watch  the  red  deer  and  the  rabbits  and  the 
birds — where  everything  is  lovely  and  still.  [His  voice  trails 
off  into  silence.     Anne  smiles  knowingly.] 

Anne.  Thou'lt  be  making  poetry  before  long,  eh,  Will? — - 
Will?  [To  Peele]  The  boy  hath  not  heard  a  word  I 
spoke. 

Peele  [coming  foriuard].  Would  he  hear  me,  I  wonder! 
Boy! 

Will  [starting].   Sir?    [Peele  looks  down  on  him  sternly.] 

Peele,     Dost  know  thou'rt  in  my  chair? 

Will   [coolly].     Thine?     Indeed,  'tis  very  easy. 

Peele.     Hark  'ee!     Dost  know  my  name? 

Will.     I  canna  say  I  do. 

Peele    [distinctly].     Master   George   Peele. 

Will.     I   thank  thee,  sir. 

Peele.     Player  in  my  Lord  Admiral's  Company. 

Will.  [His  whole  manner  changes  and  he  jumps  up 
eagerly.]  A  player?  Oh — I  did  not  know.  Pray,  take  the 
seat. 

Peele  [amused].  Dost  think  players  are  as  lords?  Most 
men  have  other  views.     [Sits.    Will  watches  him,  fascinated.] 

Will.  Nay,  but — oh,  I  love  to  see  stage-plays!  Didst  not 
play  in  Coventry  three  days  agone,  "  The  History  of  the 
Wicked  King  Richard  "  ? 

Peele.     Aye,  aye.     Behold  in  me  the  tyrant. 

Will.  Thou?  Rarely  done!  I  mind  me  yet  how  the 
hump-backed  king  frowned  and  stamped  about — thus  [imitat- 
ing].   Ha!  Ha!     'Twas  a  brave  play! 

Anne.     Thy  supper  is  ready.  Will. 

Peele  [arjiused].    The  true  player-instinct,  on  my  soul! 


xHi  INTRODUCTION 

Will  [flattered].  Dost  truly  think  so?  [Anne  plucks  his 
sleeve.] 

Anne.    Will,  where  are  thy  wits?     Supper  waits. 

Will  [apologetically].  Oh — I — I — did  na  hear  thee.  [He 
tries  to  eat,  but  his  attention  is  ever  distracted  by  the  player  s 
words.] 

Peele.     Is  my  reckoning  ready,  girl? 

Anne.     Reckoning  now,  sir?    Wilt  thou — ? 

Peele,  Yes,  yes,  I  go  to-night.  To-morrow  Warwick,  then 
the  long  road  to  Oxford,  playing  by  the  wa}' — and  London 
at  last! 

Anne.    And  then?     [Will  listens  intently.] 

Peele.  Then  back  to  the  old  Blackfriars,  where  all  the  city 
will  flock  to  our  tragedies  and  chronicles — a  long,  merry  life 
of  it. 

Anne  [interested].    And  does  the  Queen  ever  come? 

Peele.  Nay,  child,  we  go  to  her.  Last  Christmas  I  plaj'ed 
before  her  at  court,  in  the  great  room  at  Whitehall,  before 
the  nobles  and  ambassadors  and  ladies — oh,  a  gay  time — and 
the  Queen  said — 

Will  [starting  up].    What  was  the  play? 

Anne.     Eat  thy  supper,  Will. 

Will   [impatiently].     I  want  no  more. 

Peele.  So  my  young  cockerel  is  awake  again.  Will,  a  boy 
of  thy  stamp  is  lost  here  in  Stratford.  Thou  shouldst  be  in 
London  with  us.  By  cock  and  pie,  I  have  a  mind  to  steal  thee 
for  the  company!      [Rises  to  pace  the  floor.] 

Will   [breathlessly].     To  play  in  London? 

Anne.  Nay,  Will,  he  but  jests.  Thou'rt  happier  here  than 
traipsing  about  wi'  the  players.     [Giles  appears  at  back.] 

Giles.  Nags  be  ready,  zur,  at  sunset  as  thee'st  bid.  Shall 
I  put  the  gear  on  ?  • 

Peele  [sharply].  Well  fed  and  groomed?  Nay,  I  will  see 
them  mj'self.  [Giles  vanishes.  Peele  turns  at  the  door.] 
Hark'ee,  lass.  Thy  lad  could  do  far  worse  than  become  a 
player.  Good  meat  and  drink,  gold  in  's  pouch,  favor  at  court, 
and  true  friends.  I  like  the  lad's  spirit.  [He  goes.  Anne 
drops  into  his  chair  by  the  fire.  Twilight  is  coining  on  rapidly. 
Will  stands  silent  at  the  window  looking  after  the  player.] 

Anne  [troubled].  Will,  what  is  it?  Thou'rt  very  strange 
to-night. 


THE  BOY  WILL  xliii 

Will  [wistfully].  I — I — Oh,  Anne,  I  want  to  go  to  Lon- 
don. I  am  a-weary  of  rusting  in  Stratford,  where  I  can  learn 
nothing  new,  save  to  grow  old,  following  my  father's  trade. 

Anne.     But  in  London? 

Will  [kindling].  In  London  one  can  learn  more  marvels 
in  a  day  than  in  a  lifetime  here;  for  there  the  streets  are  in  a 
bustle  all  day  long,  and  the  whole  world  meets  in  them,  soldiers 
and  courtiers  and  men  of  war,  from  France  and  Spain  and  the 
new  lands  beyond  the  sea,  all  full  of  learning  and  pleasant  tales 
of  foreign  wars  and  the  wondrous  things  in  the  colonies.  My 
schoolmaster  told  me  of  it.  You  can  stand  in  St.  Paul's  and 
the  whole  world  passes  by,  mad  for  knowledge  and  adventure. 
And  then  the  stage-plays — ! 

Anne.    Oh,  Will,  why  long  for  them? 

Will.  Think  how  splendid  they  must  be  when  the  Queen 
herself  loves  to  see  'em.  If  I  were  like  this  pla5'er-fellow,  and 
acted  with  the  Admiral's  company!  He  laughed  that  he  would 
take  me  with  him — to  be  a  player  and  perchance  write  plays, 
interludes,  and  noble  tragedies!  Think  of  it,  Anne — to  live  in 
London  and  be  one  of  all  the  rare  company  there,  to  write 
brave  plays  wi'  sounding  lines  for  all  to  wonder  at,  and  have 
folk  turn  on  the  streets  when  I  passed  and  whisper,  "  That  be 
Will  Shakespeare,  the  play-maker  " — to  act  them  even  at  court 
and  gain  the  Queen's  own  thanks!  Anne,  London  is  so  great 
and  splendid!  It  beckons  me  wi'  all  its  turmoil  of  affairs  and 
its  noble  hearts  ready  to  love  a  new  comrade.  [Disconsolately] 
And  I  must  bide  in  Stratford? 

Anne  [gently].  Come  now,  Will.  No  need  to  be  so 
feverish.  Sit  down  by  me.  What  canst  thou  know  of  play- 
making?     What  canst  thou  do  in  London? 

Will  [he  sits  dozen  by  the  hearth  at  her  feet,  looking  into 
the  firelight].  I'll  tell  thee,  Anne.  Thy  father  and  half  the 
village  call  me  a  lazy  oaf,  that  I  stray  i'  the  woods  some  days 
instead  of  helping  my  father.  I  canna  help  it.  The  fit  comes 
on  me,  and  I  must  be  alone,  out  i'  the  great  woods. 

Anne  [gladly].    Then  thou  dost  not  poach? 

Will  [hastily].  No,  no — that  is — sometimes  I  am  with 
Hodge  and  Diccon  and  John  a'  Field,  and  'tis  hard  not  to 
chase  the  deer.     Nay,  look  not  so  grave — I  try  to  do  no  harm. 

Anne  [quietly].    And  when  thou'rt  alone? 

Will.     Then  I  lie  under  the  trees  or  wander  through  the 


xHv  INTRODUCTION 

fields,  and  make  plays  to  myself,  as  though  I  writ  them  in  my 
mind,  and  cry  the  lines  forth  to  the  birds — they  sound  nobly, 
too — or  make  little  songs  and  sing  them  i'  the  sunshine.  They 
are  but  dreams,  I  know,  but  splendid  ones — and  the  player 
looked  wi'  favor  on  me,  and  said  I  might  make  a  good  player, 
and  he  would  take  me  with  him. 

Anne.     But  he  only  jested. 

Will.  No  jest  to  me!  I'll  take  him  at  his  word  and  go 
with  him  to  London.     [He  starts  up  eagerly.] 

Anne  [troubled].   Will,  Will!    [Peele  enters  at  the  back.] 

Peele.     Hark  'ee,  Giles,  I  go  in  half  an  hour! 

Will.     Master  Peele!     [Catches  at  his  arm.] 

Peele.    Well,  youngster? 

Will  [sloiuly].  Thou — thou  saidst  I  had  a  good  spirit  and 
would  do  well  in  London — in  a  stage  company.  Thou  wert 
in  jest,  but — I  will  go  with  thee,  if  I  may. 

Peele  [taken  all  aback].     Go  with  me? 

Will  [earnestly].    With  the  player's  company — to  London. 

Peele  [laughing].  'S  wounds!  Thou  hast  assurance!  Dost 
think  to  become  a  great  player  at  once  ? 

Will  [impatiently].  Oh,  I  care  not  for  the  playing.  Let 
me  but  be  in  London,  to  see  the  people  there  and  be  near  the 
theatre.  I'll  be  the  players'  servant,  I'll  hold  the  nobles'  horses 
in  the  street — I'll  do  anything! 

Peele  [seriously].  And  go  with  us  all  over  England  on 
hard  journeys  to  play  to  ignorant  rustics? 

Will.  Anywhere — I'll  follow  on  to  the  world's  end — only 
take  me  with  you  to  London !  [As  he  speaks  Giles  and  Mis- 
tress Shakespeare,  a  kindly  faced  woman  of  middle  age, 
dressed  in  housewife's  cap  and  gown,  appear  at  the  door.] 

Giles.    There  'e  be.  Mistress  Shixpur. 

Mistress  S.  [as  she  enters].  Oh,  Will.    [He  turns  sharply.] 

Will  [confusedly].  Mother!  I — I — did  not  know  thou 
wert  here. 

Mistress  S.  Why  didst  not  come  home — and  what  dost 
thou  want  with  this  stranger? 

Anne.     He  would  go  to  London  with  him. 

Mistress  S.   [aghast].     To  London.     My  Will? 

Will  [quietly].  Thou  knowest,  mother,  what  I  ha'  told 
thee,  things  I  told  to  no  other,  and  now  the  good  time  has  come 
that  I  can  see  more  of  England. 


THE  BOY  WILL  xlv 

Mistress  S.  But  I  canna  let  thee  go.  Oh,  Anne,  I  knew 
the  boy  was  restless,  but  I  did  not  think  for  it  so  soon.  He  is 
only  a  boy. 

Will  [coloring].  In  two  years  I  shall  be  a  man — I  am  a 
man  now  in  spirit.  I  canna  stay  in  Stratford.  [Mistress 
Shakespeare  sinks  down  in  a  chair.] 

Mistress  S.  What  o'  me?  And,  Will,  'twill  break  thy 
father's  heart!     [Will  looks  ashamed.] 

Will.  I  know,  he  would  not  understand.  'Tis  hard.  He 
must  not  know  till  I  be  gone. 

Mistress  S.  [To  Peele].  Oh,  sir,  how  could  you  wish  to 
lead  the  lad  away?     Hath  not  London  enough  a'ready? 

Peele  [luho  has  been  listening  uncomfortably,  faces  her 
gravely].  I  but  played  with  the  lad  at  first,  till  I  saw  how 
earnest  he  was;  then  I  would  take  him,  for  I  loved  his  bold- 
ness. But,  boy,  I'll  tell  thee  fairly,  thou'lt  do  better  here. 
Thou'st  seen  the  brave  side  of  it,  the  gay  dresses,  the  good 
horses,  the  cheering  crowds  and  the  court-favor.  But  'tis  dark 
sometimes,  too.  The  pouches  often  hang  empty  when  the  peo- 
ple turn  away — the  lords  are  as  the  clouded  sun,  now  smiling, 
now  cold — and  there  come  the  bitter  days,  when  a  man  has  no 
friends  but  the  pot-mates  of  the  moment,  when  every  man's 
hand  is  against  him  for  a  vagabond  and  a  rascal,  when  the 
prison-gates  lay  ever  wide  before  him,  and  the  fickle  folk,  crying 
after  a  new  favorite,  leave  the  old  to  starve. 

Anne,    Will,  canst  not  see?    Thou'rt  better  here — 

Will  [bravely].  I  know — all  this  may  wait  me — but  I 
must  go. 

Mistress  S.  [alarmed].  Must  go.  Will?  [He  kneels  by 
her  side.] 

Will  [tenderly].  Hush,  mother,  I'll  tell  thee.  'Tis  not 
entirely  my  longing,  for  this  morning  the  keeper  of  old  Lucy — 

Giles.     Ha,  poaching  again,  young  scamp! 

Will.  Brought  me  before  him — I  was  na  poaching,  I'll 
swear  it,  not  so  much  as  chasing  the  deer — but  Sir  Thomas  had 
no  patience,  and  bade  me  clear  out,  else  he  would  seize  me. 
I — I — dare  na  stay. 

Mistress  S.  I  feared  it;  thy  father  forbade  thee  in  the 
great  park.  And  now — Oh,  Will,  Will — I  know  well  how 
thou'st  longed  to  go  from  here — and  now  thou  must — what 
shall  I  do,  lacking  thee? 


xlvi  INTRODUCTION 

Peele  [frankly].  Will,  if  thou  must  go,  thou  must.  Lon- 
don is  greater  than  Stratford,  and  there  is  much  evil  there, 
but  thou'rt  true-hearted,  and — by  my  player's  honor — I  will 
stand  by  thee,  till  the  hangman  get  me.  But  we  must  go  soon. 
'Tis  a  dark  road  to  Warwick — I'll  see  to  the  horses.  Is  it  a 
compact?     [Will  gives  him  his  hands.] 

Will  [huskily],  A  compact,  sir — to  the  end.  [Peele  hur- 
ries out.] 

Giles.  Look  at  'e  now,  breaking  'is  mother's  heart,  and 
mad  wi'  joy  to  revel  in  London.     'Tis  little  'e  recks  of  she. 

Will  [hotly].  Thou  liest.  [Bending  over  her]  Mother, 
'tis  not  true.  I  do  love  thee  and  father,  I  love  Stratford.  I'll 
never  forget  it.  But  'tis  so  little  here,  and  I  must  get  away  to 
gain  learning  and  do  things  i'  the  world,  that  I  may  bring 
home  all  I  get;  fame,  if  God  grant  it,  money,  if  I  gain  it,  all 
to  those  at  home. 

Anne.     Thou'rt  over-confident. 

Will.  Aye,  because  I'm  young.  God  knows  there  is 
enough  pain  in  London,  and  I'll  get  my  share — but  I'm  young! 
Mother,  thou'rt  not  angry? 

Mistress  S.  I  knew  'twas  coming,  and  'tis  not  so  hard. 
We  will  always  wait  for  thee  at  home,  when  thou'rt  weary. 

Giles  [at  the  door].  The  horses  are  waiting.  'Tis  dark, 
Will. 

Will  [breaking  down].     Mother,  mother! 

Mistress  S.  The  good  God  keep  thee  safe.  Kiss  me.  Will. 
[He  bends  over  her,  then  stumbles  to  the  door,  Anne  follozv- 
ing.] 

Will  [turning].  Anne — Anne — thou  dost  not  despise  me 
for  deserting  Stratford.     I  inust  go. 

Anne.  Oh,  I  know.  Thou'lt  go  to  London  and  forget 
us  all. 

Will.  No,  no,  thou — I  couldn't  forget.  I'll  remember 
thee,  Anne — I'll  put  thee  in  my  plays;  all  my  young  maids  and 
lovers  shall  be  thee,  as  thou'rt  now — and  I'll  bring  thee  rare 
gifts  when  I  come  home. 

Anne.  I  do  na  want  them.  Will — I — I — did  na  mean  to 
be  unkind.  We  were  good  friends,  and  I  trust  in  thee,  for  the 
future,  that  thou'lt  be  great.  Good-by — and  do  na  forget  the 
little  playmate. 

Will.    I  will  na  forget  [kissing  her],  and,  Anne,  be  good  to 


PLAYMAKING  xlvii 

my  mother.     [She  goes  back  to  Mistress  Shakespeare,  and 
he  stands  watching  them  in  the  dusk.] 

Peele  [at  the  ivindoiu].     Come,  come,  Will!    We  must  go. 

Will  [turning  slozvly].     I — I'm  coming,  sir. 

[the  curtain.] 

All  the  dramatic  motives  that  have  been  enumerated  so  far 
have  been  more  or  less  literary  in  origin,  but  "  A  play  may  start 
from  almost  anything:  a  detached  thought  that  flashes  through 
the  mind ;  a  theory  of  conduct  or  an  act  which  one  firmly  be- 
lieves or  wishes  only  to  examine ;  a  bit  of  dialogue  overheard 
or  imagined ;  a  setting,  real  or  imagined,  which  creates  emotion 
in  the  observer ;  a  perfectly  detached  scene,  the  antecedents  and 
consequences  of  which  are  as  yet  unknown ;  a  figure  glimpsed 
in  a  crowd  which  for  some  reason  arrests  the  attention  of  the 
dramatist  ...  a  mere  incident — heard  in  idle  talk  or  ob- 
served ;  a  story  told  only  in  barest  outline  or  with  the  utmost 
detail."  1 

The  great  dramatic  critic,  William  Archer,  has  said  that 
"the  only  valid  definition  of  the  dramatic  is:  Any  representa- 
tion of  imaginary  personages  which  is  capable  of  interesting  an 
average  audience  assembled  in  a  theater."  For  the  purposes 
of  the  definition  the  Boy  Will  of  Robert  Emmons  Rogers's 
little  piece  and  Drinkwater's  Abraham  Lincoln  are  eq':allv 
imaginary  personages.  In  the  case  of  the  one-act  play  the 
theatre  in  question  is  more  often  than  not  a  Little  Theatre  or 
a  school  theatre,  the  representation  is  more  frequently  at  the 
moment  by  amateur  than  by  professional  actors  and  the  audi- 
ence, being  small  and  close  to  the  stage,  is  likely  to  assume  a  co- 
operative attitude  towards  the  playwright,  the  actor,  and  the 
other  immediate  factors  in  the  production.  Since  the  success 
of  a  play  depends  on  its  adaptability  to  the  requirements  of 
actor,  theatre,  and  audience,  it  is  well  for  inexperienced  play- 
wrights to  study  the  conditions  under  which  one-act  plays  are 
likely  to  be  produced. 

One  very  practical  consideration  to  hold  in  mind  is  that  the 
one-act  play  has  a  shorter  time  in  which  to  focus  attention  than 

^  George  Pierce  Baker,  Dramatic  Technique,  Boston  and  New  York, 
1919.  P-  47- 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION 

the  full-length  play  and  so  the  indispensable  preliminary  expo- 
sition must  be  quickly  disposed  of  and  an  urgent  appeal  to  the 
emotional  interest  of  the  audience  must  be  made  at  the  begin- 
ning. As  has  been  said,  every  artistic  consideration  that  calls 
for  singleness  of  impression  in  the  short-story  is  of  equal  im- 
portance in  determining  the  unified  structure  of  the  one-act 
play.  For  the  reason  that  a  one-act  play  is  almost  never  given 
by  itself,  if  for  no  other,  its  effect  will  be  dissipated  if  plot, 
characterization,  or  atmosphere  fails  in  unity. 

The  writer  exercising  himself  in  the  art  of  play-making  had 
best  begin  with  the  procedure  common  to  many  professional 
playwrights.  This  first  step  is  the  drawing  up  of  a  scenario, 
which  is  an  outline  showing  the  course  of  the  story,  identifying 
the  characters,  indicating  the  setting  and  atmosphere  and  ex- 
plaining the  nature  of  the  play;  that  is,  whether,  for  example, 
it  is  to  be  a  fantasy  like  The  Pierrot  of  the  Minute,  or  a 
comedy  of  manners  like  fVurzel-Flummery. 

Here  for  instance  is  such  a  scenario  as  might  have  been 
drawn  up  for  The  Boy  Will: 

THE   BOY  WILL    (Historical   fantasy) 

Scenario  for  a  one-act  play,  by 

Robert  Emmons  Rogers 

Characters 
(in  order  of  their   appearance) 

Master  George  Peele,  player  of  the  Admiral's  Company. 
Giles,  a  plump  and  peevish  old  rogue,  a  tapster. 
Anne  Hathaway,  at  sixteen  a  slim  girl,  niece  to  Giles. 
Will  Shakespeare,  a  sturdy,  ruddy  boy,  Anne's  playmate. 
Mistress  Shakespeare,  a  kindly  faced  woman  of  middle  age,  Will's 
mother. 

Within   the   White   Luces    Inn   on    a   late    afternoon    in   spring,    1582, 
(Here  a  description  of  the  interior  would  follow.) 

Peele  is  eating  and  drinking  at  the  inn,  waited  on  by  Anne  Hathaway. 
Anne,  scolded  by  Giles  for  her  slowness,  is  commended  as  comely  and 

spirited   by  Peele. 
Peele  abuses  Stratford   as  a  sleepy  hole. 
Anne   explains   her    delay   in    fetching    ale   by   the   fact  that   Mistress 

Shakespeare  has  been  at  the  back  door  inquiring  for  Will  who 

has  been  gone  all  day. 
Giles  explains  Will  to  Peele  as  a  young  poacher. 


PLAYMAKING  xlix 

Anne  indignantly  denies  the  charge  and  praises  Will  as  the  brightest 
boy   in   Stratford. 

Giles  accuses  him  of  gawking  at  plays  and  predicts  a  bad  end  for 
the  boy. 

Peele  resents  the  implication. 

Singing  a  May-day  catch,  Will  enters.  Afraid  to  go  home  because  he 
has  been  wasting  his  day  in  Charlecote  Park  and  fears  father's 
scolding. 

Goes  oflF  into  a  golden  dream  of  his  day  in  the  woods. 

Peele   attracts   his   attention   by   announcing  his   profession. 

Will  shows  his  interest. 

Is  too  distracted  by  Peele  to  eat. 

Peele  announces  itinerary  of  his  players  and  kindles  Will's  imagina- 
tion with   a  mention  of  the   Queen. 

Threatens  to  carry  Will  off  to  London, 

Anne  discourages  the   plan. 

Peele  draws  glowing  pictures  of  actor's  profession. 

Will  is  all  on  fire  for  London  in  spite  of  Anne. 

Tells  Anne  he's  tired  of  being  nagged. 

Makes  Peele  promise  to  take  him  to  London. 

His  mother  comes  for  him  and  is  aghast  at  the  news,  but  finally  con- 
sents to  let  Will  go  without  his  father's  knowledge. 

Peele  then  draws  a  picture  of  the  actor  as  vagabond  to  discourage 
Will. 

Anne  holds  out  against  his  going. 

Will  tells  how,  though  he  has  not  been  poaching,  he  has  been  warned 
by  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  to  clear  out. 

His  mother  sees  that  he  must  go. 

Will  makes  a  compact  with  Peele. 

Promises  Anne  rare  gifts  and  kissing  his  mother  goes. 

The  scenario  drawn  up,  the  next  step  is  to  develop  the  plot. 
The  plot  of  a  one-act  play,  to  be  effective,  must  be  extraor- 
dinarily compact.  The  accepted  laws  of  plot  construction  for 
all  artistic  narratives  are  the  same.  The  climax  must  be 
carefully  prepared  for,  as  in  Synge's  Riders  to  the  Sea,  and  the 
various  devices  used  for  heightening  the  suspense  should  be 
discovered  and  applied. 

Characterization  is  more  difficult  for  the  tyro  to  manage  than 
plot.  Consistency  of  characterization  is  attained  through  dis- 
covering in  the  beginning  a  motive  that  will  sufficiently  account 
for  the  part  taken  by  the  character  by  means  of  speech  and 
action,  and  through  constantly  testing  the  characterization  by 
this  motive.  Such  consistency  of  characterization  is  illustrated 
to  perfection  in  Tarkington's  Beauty  and  the  Jacobin.  The 
writer  of  the  one-act  play  does  not  use  many  characters. 
"  Examination  of  several  hundred  one-act  plays  has  revealed 


I  INTRODUCTION 

that  the  average  number  of  characters  to  a  play  is  between 
three  and  four."  ^ 

Facility  in  writing  dialogue  is  gained  like  facility  in  plot 
construction  and  in  characterization  only  by  the  patient  study 
of  the  work  of  experienced  and  successful  playwrights.  Dia- 
logue that  is  witty,  charming,  ironical,  or  graceful  is  of  dra- 
matic value  only  as  it  is  in  character. 

A  little  experience  on  the  stage  is  a  great  help.  Such  ex- 
perience teaches  the  value  of  skillfully  planned  exits  and  en- 
trances for  characters;  helps  the  beginner  to  distinguish  be- 
tween action  that  should  be  related  and  action  that  should  be 
seen ;  shows  him  how  a  scene  must  be  devised  to  occupy  the 
time  it  takes  for  a  character  to  appear  after  he  has  telephoned 
that  he  is  coming;  and  a  variety  of  other  practical  considera- 
tions. 

Stage  directions  are  likely  to  be  over-elaborated  by  the  inex- 
perienced. The  best  stage  directions  are  those  that  deal  only 
with  matters  of  setting,  lighting  and  essential  pantomime  or 
action.  They  should  not,  in  general,  be  used  for  characteriza- 
tion. 

But  after  all  there  can  be  no  infallible  recipes  for  dra- 
matic writing.  With  the  successful  professional  playwright, 
apprenticeship  is  often  an  unconscious  stage.  Plays  succeed 
that  break  all  the  rules  laid  down  by  critics  and  professors  of 
dramatic  literature,  but  after  all  those  rules  were,  to  begin 
with,  based  on  practices  productive  of  success  under  other  con- 
ditions. In  any  case  some  insight  into  the  mechanics  of  dra- 
matic art  does  make  the  reading  of  plays  more  interesting  and 
does  give  an  added  zest  to  theatre  going. 

THE  THEATRE  IN  THE  SCHOOL 

The  giving  of  plays  in  schools  is  no  new  thing.  One  of  the 
earliest  English  comedies,  Ralph  Roister  Doister,  was  written 
in  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  by  Nicholas  Udall,  a 
schoolmaster,  probably  to  be  performed  at  Westminister  School 
at  Christmas  time.  Many  generations  of  boys  in  the  English 
public  schools  have  presented  the  plays  of  the  Greek  and  Latin 

'B.   Roland  Lewis,    The    Technique   of  the   One-Act  Play,  Boston, 

1918,    p.    211. 


THE  THEATRE  IN  THE  SCHOOL 


li 


dramatists;  and  schools  and  colleges  in  this  country  have  also 
at  times  given  performances  of  the  classic  drama.  But  until 
recently  Shakespeare  and  the  comedies  of  Sheridan  and  Gold- 
smith have  been  the  chief  dramatic  fare  both  in  the  classroom 
and  on  the  stage  in  American  schools. 

Modern  plays  are  coming,  however,  to  be  more  generally 
introduced  into  the  course  of  study.  The  following  significant 
list,  prepared  by  Miss  Anna  H.  Spaulding,  is  in  use  in  the 
senior  classes  in  English  in  the  Brookline  High  School,  at 
Brookline,  Massachusetts: 


Noah's  Flood 

Sacrifice  of  Isaac 

Everyman 

Everywoman 

The  Servant  in  the  House 

Ralph    Roister    Doister 

Tales  of  the  Mermaid  Tavern 

Merchant   of   Venice 

JevF  of  Malta 

Tragedy  of  Shakespeare 

Comedy  of  Shakespeare 

The   Rivals 

The  Good   Natured  Man 

She   Stoops  to  Conquer 

Caste 

The  Lady  of  Lyons 

One   Closet   Drama 

The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray 

One  Comedy  of  Pinero 

The  Silver  King 

One   Serious  Play  by  Jones 

The  Importance 


Arms  and  the  Man 
Caesar   and   Cleopatra 
John  Bull's  Other  Island 
The  Doctor's  Dilemma 
Strife 
Justice 

The  Tragedy  of  Nan 
The  Marrying  of  Ann   Leete 
Seven    Short   Plays 
The  Land  of   Heart's   Desire,   or 
The    Countess    Cathleen,    or 
Cathleen    Ni    Houlihan 
The  Shadow  of  the  Glen 
Riders    to    the    Sea 
The  Birthright 
The   Truth 

The  Witching  Hour,  or 
As   a   Man   Thinks 
The   Scarecrow 
The  Piper 
Milestones 
of  Being  Earnest 


Thirty-five  of  these  plays  are  distinctly  modern.  Another 
list,  in  use  as  part  of  a  course  in  contemporary  literature  given 
in  the  last  half  of  the  third  year  at  the  Washington  Irving 
High  School  and  including  only  modern  plays,  is  reprinted 
below : 


The    Blue    Bird 
The  Melting  Pot 
Milestones 
Justice,  or 
The  Silver  Box 


Pygmalion 
The   Piper 
Prunella 
Sherwood 
The    Land 
Spreading  the  News 


of    Heart's    Desire 


lii  INTRODUCTION 

These  plays  are  read  and  studied;  that  Is  to  say,  such  topics 
as  dramatic  workmanship,  theme,  setting,  characterization,  dia- 
logue, and  diction  are  taken  up  in  connection  with  each  one 
and  each  one  is  made  the  starting  point  for  a  new  interest  in 
the  drama  of  to-day.^ 

In  another  high  school  in  New  York,  the  Evander  Childs, 
there  is  a  four  years'  course  of  two  periods  a  week  in  class- 
room study  of  the  drama,  old  and  new.  All  composition  work 
is  connected  with  this  special  interest. 

Another  kind  of  work  based  on  contemporary  drama  was 
carried  on  by  a  group  of  first-year  students  in  a  certain  high 
school  who  were  much  interested  in  a  program  of  one-act 
plays  to  be  presented  in  the  school  theatre.  The  teacher 
of  English  who  had  charge  of  this  young  class  discussed  the 
subject  of  the  theatre  audience  with  them  both  before  and 
after  the  performance.  The  outcome  of  this  analysis  of  the 
interests  of  the  audience  was  an  outline.  These  fourteen-year 
old  girls  said  that  the  next  time  that  they  went  to  the  theatre 
they  would  keep  in  mind  the  following  considerations : 

I,    In   regard   to  the   play: 

A.  Its  title 

B.  Classification 

C.  Plot 

D.  Characterization 

E.  Dialogue 

F.  Theme 

II.    In  regard  to  the  actors: 

A.  Their  intelligence 

B.  Clearness  of  speech 

C.  Ease  of  manner 

D.  Facial  expression  (appropriateness  of  make-up) 

E.  Pantomime  or   action 

1.  Posture 

2.  Gesture 

3.  Repose 

*  Further  interesting  information  on  the  reading  and  the  study  of 
modern  plays  in  the  schools  may  be  found  in  the  valuable  article  by 
F.  G.  Thompkins  of  the  Central  High  School,  Detroit,  called  The 
Play  Course  in  High  School,  in  The  English  Journal  for  November, 
1920,  and  in  the  same  issue,  in  the  list  of  plays  produced  by  St.  Louis 
High  Schools,  prepared  by  Clarence  Stratton,  Chairman,  National 
Council    Committee  on   Plays. 


THE  THEATRE  IN  THE  SCHOOL  liii 

F.     Costumes 

1.  Appropriateness  as  an  index  to  character 

2.  Color    and    design 

3.  Harmony   with   the    setting 

III.    In  regard  to  the  setting: 

A.  The   lighting 

B.  Color  and  design 

C.  Appropriateness   as  regards  mood   of  play 

D.  Suggestiveness 

E.  Workmanship 

One  cannot  help  feeling  that  these  young  people  were  being 
effectively  trained  to  enjoy  the  best  drama  in  the  best  way. 

Not  only  is  modern  drama  being  read  and  studied  in  the 
English  classes,  but  the  schools  are  becoming  centres  of  Little 
Theatre  movements  and  leading  their  communities  in  pageants 
and  dramatic  festivals.  An  editorial  in  The  New  York  Eve- 
ning Post  in  igi8  put  it  in  this  way:  "As  Froude  states  that 
in  Tudor  England  there  was  acting  everywhere  from  palace 
to  inn-yard  and  village  green,  so,  the  prediction  is  made,  future 
historians  will  record  that  in  our  America  there  was  acting 
everywhere — in  neighborhood  theatres,  portable  theatres,  church 
clubs,  high  schools  and  universities,  settlements,  open  amphi- 
theatres, and  hotel  ballrooms." 

One  reason  that  amateur  dramatics  have  taken  on  a  new 
lease  of  life  in  the  schools  is  because  other  teachers  besides 
teachers  of  English  have  become  interested  in  the  project  of 
giving  a  play.  Students  in  physics  classes  have  planned  and 
executed  lighting  systems  for  the  school  theatre,  students  in 
carpentering  and  manual  arts  have  built  the  scenery  from  de- 
signs made  in  drawing  classes,  curtains  have  been  stenciled, 
costumes  made  and  cloths  dyed  in  domestic  art  classes,  pro- 
grams printed  by  the  school  printing  squad,  music  furnished  by. 
the  school  orchestra  and  dances  taught  by  the  physical  training 
department.  In  most  cases  the  line  coaching  and  the  general 
direction  of  the  play  have  been  part  of  the  work  in  English. 

A  concrete  example  will  illustrate  this  kind  of  co-operation. 
Several  years  ago  the  department  of  English  at  the  Washington 
Irving  High  School  gave  two  plays.  Three  Pills  in  a  Bottle, 
a  product  of  the  47  Workshop,  by  Rachel  Lyman  Field,  and 
The  Goddess  of  the  Woven  Wind,  by  Alice  Rostetter.     The 


liv  INTRODUCTION 

Goddess  of  the  Woven  Wind  had  grown  out  of  class-room 
work.  The  girls  in  an  industrial  course  were  studying  the 
origin  of  the  silk  industry.  A  pamphlet  stated  that  the  wife 
of  Hoangti,  Si-Ling-Chi,  was  the  first  to  prepare  and  weave 
silk.  This  legend  offered  suggestive  dramatic  material  pe- 
culiarly appropriate   for  a  girls'  high  school. 

The  work  of  obtaining  the  setting  and  the  properties  was 
divided  between  two  committees,  each  working  under  the  direc- 
tion of  a  chairman.  Since  fifty  dollars  had  been  fixed  as  the 
limit  of  expenditure  for  the  two  plays,  the  problem  was  rather 
a  difficult  one.  Fortunately,  Three  Pills  in  a  Bottle  calls  for 
a  small  cast.  The  cast  of  The  Goddess  of  the  Woven  Wind, 
however,  included  thirty-four  girls,  most  of  whom  had  to  be 
orientally  clad  and  equipped.  The  teacher  who  contemplates 
putting  on  a  rather  elaborate  costume  play  in  his  or  her 
high  school  will  be  interested  to  learn  that  the  amount  was 
so  exactly  fixed  and  the  department  so  resourceful  that  fifty- 
one  dollars  and  nine  cents  was  the  total  sum  spent  on  the 
two  plays.  Then,  lest  anyone  think  that  there  had  been  a  mis- 
calculation, let  it  be  added  that  this  sum  included  the  money 
spent  for  hot  chocolate  to  serve  to  the  casts  of  the  plays,  be- 
tween the  afternoon  and  evening  performances. 

The  problem  of  staging  Three  Pills  in  a  Bottle  was  greatly 
simplified  by  the  fact  that  the  frontispiece  of  the  play  gives  a 
simple,  effective  setting  not  difficult  to  copy.  With  the  aid  of 
some  amateur  carpentering,  the  regular  interior  set  was  easily 
transformed  to  suit  the  purpose.  The  problem  of  color  was 
solved  when  the  chairman  of  the  committee  found  a  patchwork 
quilt  in  the  attic,  during  a  visit  to  her  mother's  home;  a  con- 
ference with  the  janitress  of  her  city  apartment  developed  the 
fact  that  she  possessed  a  freshly  scrubbed  wash-tub,  which  she 
was  willing  not  only  to  donate  to  the  cause,  but  to  have  painted 
green. 

The  task  of  staging  The  Goddess  of  the  Woven  Wind  was 
difficult  and  interesting,  because  it  was  decidedly  a  costume 
play,  and  because  it  was  a  first  production.  Some  of  the  dif- 
ficulties that  confronted  the  chairman  of  the  committee  for  that 
play  were  amusing. 

For  instance,  after  some  perplexed  thought  on  the  subject, 
she  tacked  the  following  list  of  costumes  and  properties  on  the 
Bulletin  Board  of  the  English  office: 


THE  THEATRE  IN  THE  SCHOOL  Iv 

WANTED: 

Mulberry  tree 
Gardener's    spade 
Tealcvvood  stool 
Chinese   necklaces 
Large,   colorful    abacus 
Mandarin    coats    and    hats 
Sky-blue  Chinese  bowl 
Chinese  gong 
Bamboo   rod 
Silk  cocoons 

She  also  advertised  the  need  of  these  things  and  many  others 
In  all  her  classes.  Within  two  weeks  nearly  everything  had 
either  appeared  or  been  promised,  except  a  Chinese  gong  with 
a  proper  "  whang  "  to  it,  an  unbreakable  sky-blue  bowl  and 
the  mulberry  tree!  A  teacher  in  a  neighboring  school  lent 
the  company  a  splendid  gong,  sometimes  used  in  their  or- 
chestra; a  student  transformed  a  wooden  chopping  bowl  by 
means  of  clay  and  tempera  into  an  exquisite  piece  of  pottery, 
copied  from  a  priceless  bowl  on  exhibition  at  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  of  Art. 

The  mulberry  tree  was  still  an  unsolved  problem,  when 
Dugald  Stuart  Walker,  the  artist  who  has  produced  a  number 
of  plays  at  the  Christadora  House  in  New  York,  was  consulted. 
He  suggested  that  the  tree  be  a  conventionalized  one  of  flat 
"  drapes  "  of  green  and  brown  poplin,  with  cocoons  sewn  on 
in  a  simple  border  design. 

The  staging  of  the  play  then  became  a  project  for  members 
of  a  third-year  art  class.  During  their  English  period  they 
read  the  play,  recited  on  the  subject  of  the  China  of  remote 
dynasties,  constructed  a  miniature  stage,  and  then,  forming  com- 
mittees among  themselves,  worked  out  the  practical  details. 
One  group  purchased  the  necessary  paint,  another  painted  the 
vermilion  sun.  Her  neighbor  afHxed  it  to  a  bamboo  rod.  To 
emphasize  the  Chinese  setting,  two  girls  made  a  frame  with  a 
dragon  as  head-piece  and  huge,  colorful  Chinese  medallions 
to  be  sewn  on  the  side  drapery.  The  design  for  the  medallions 
was  obtained  from  a  Chinese  brass  plate.  Almost  every  girl 
in  the  class  took  part  in  the  project.  Interest  was  easily  aroused, 
as  a  number  of  girls  in  this  class  took  part  in  the  play. 

As  for  the  costumes,   for   the   thirty-four  members  of   the 


IvI  INTRODUCTION 

cast,  only  eight  dollars'  worth  was  hired.  The  rest  were 
either  borrowed  or  made  by  the  girls.  The  most  successful 
one,  perhaps,  that  worn  by  the  empress,  was  copied  from  an 
Edmund  Dulac  illustration  of  the  Princess  Badoura.  The 
astrologers'  costumes  were  obtained  from  photographs  of  The 
Yellow  Jacket,  lent  by  Mrs.  Coburn.  To  complete  the  project, 
the  girls  wrote  a  composition  explaining  how  to  organize  the 
staging  of  a  costume  play. 

Meanwhile,  the  selection  and  coaching  of  the  two  casts  was 
going  on.  Competition  for  the  parts  was  open  to  the  girls  of 
the  entire  school.  A  great  many  girls  were  tried  out  before 
the  two  committees  made  a  choice.  In  fact,  every  girl  who 
was  recommended  by  her  English  teacher  was  given  an  oppor- 
tunity to  read  a  part.  In  a  number  of  cases  two  girls  were 
assigned  for  one  part  and  it  was  not  known  until  almost  the 
last  moment  who  was  to  have  the  role  or  who  was  to  under- 
study. Rehearsals  were  held  at  least  three  times  a  week,  for 
three  weeks,  and  a  full-dress  rehearsal  was  held  two  days  be- 
fore the  final  performance.  It  was  thought  advisable  to  allow 
a  day  to  elapse  between  the  last  rehearsal  and  the  real  per- 
formance, in  order  to  give  the  girls  an  opportunity  to  rest. 

In  coaching  the  plays,  an  effort  was  made  to  have  a  girl  read 
the  line  properly  without  having  it  read  to  her.  The  members 
of  the  coaching  committee  would  explain  the  mood  or  frame 
of  mind  to  the  speaker ;  the  girl  would  then  interpret  the  mood 
in  her  reading. 

In  addition  to  the  coaching  committee,  several  teachers  sat  at 
the  back  of  the  auditorium  during  rehearsals,  to  warn  the 
speakers  when  they  could  not  be  heard. 

The  advertising  campaign  began  soon  after  a  choice  of  plays 
had  been  made.  In  compliance  with  the  request  of  the  Pub- 
licity Committee,  one  of  the  teachers  of  an  art  class  and  a 
teacher  in  the  English  Department  assigned  to  their  pupils  the 
problem  of  making  posters  to  advertise  the  plays.  To  the 
painter  of  the  best  one  a  prize  was  awarded. 

Announcements  of  the  play  were  posted  by  pupils  in  various 
parts  of  the  building.  Tiny  brochures  decorated  with  Chinese 
motives  were  prepared  by  students  during  an  English  period, 
and  later  were  circulated  among  the  faculty,  and  placed  upon 
oflice  bulletin  boards,  and  in  diaries.  In  writing  these 
brochures  the  girls  applied  the  knowledge  they  had  gained  in 


THE  THEATRE  IN  THE  SCHOOL  Ivii 

studying  the  writing  of  advertisements.  Two  illustrated  ad- 
vertisements made  in  one  class  were  displayed  in  other  high 
schools;  a  number  were  sent  in  an  envelope  with  tickets  to 
patrons  and  distinguished  friends  of  the  schools.  One  class 
wrote  letters  to  firms  of  wholesale  silk  merchants  and  im- 
porters, advertising  The  Goddess  of  the  Woven  IVind,  the 
story  of  silk. 

In  order  to  increase  the  sale  of  tickets  and  to  prepare  an 
appreciative  audience,  various  subjects  were  suggested  to  Eng- 
lish teachers  for  projects  in  class  work  connected  with  the  plays. 
In  many  classes  every  girl  wrote  and  illustrated  a  paper  on 
some  topic  pertaining  to  Chinese  life,  such  as  customs,  cos- 
tumes, religion,  occupations,  silk,  China,  umbrellas,  fireworks, 
fans,  position  of  women,  objects  of  art.  Oral  compositions 
vi^ere  devoted  to  phases  of  some  of  these  subjects.  In  the  oral 
work  and  in  the  written  composition,  accurate  knowledge  of 
authorities  consulted  was  insisted  upon.  Chinese  proverbs  were 
studied.  "  A  man  knows,  but  a  woman  knows  better,"  used 
by  the  author  in  her  play,  was  one  of  the  most  popular  ones. 
Translations,  found  in  the  Literary  Digest,  of  Chinese  poems 
of  the  sixteenth  and  of  the  eighteenth  century  were  produced 
and  read  by  the  girls,  many  of  whom  brought  to  class  all  the 
Chinese  articles  they  could  find  at  home.  Incense  burners,  fans, 
pitchers,  embroideries,  chop  sticks,  beads,  shoes,  vases,  and  even 
a  Chinese  newspaper,  found  their  way  to  the  class-room  and 
were  exhibited  with  pride.  Interest  in  things  Chinese  was  so 
great  that  clippings  and  prints  continued  coming  in  for  almost 
two  weeks  after  the  play  had  been  presented.  Class  visits  were 
made  to  the  Chinese  exhibit  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of 
Art  and  to  importing  houses  in  the  neighborhood. 

The  kind  of  co-operation  described  has  led  in  some  schools  to 
the  establishment  of  workshops  similar  to  those  conducted  in  con- 
nection with  certain  university  courses  in  playwriting  and  dra- 
matics and  with  many  of  the  Little  Theatres.  A  paragraph  that 
appeared  recently  in  a  calendar  of  the  New  York  Drama  League 
explains  in  a  convincing  way  the  necessity  for  a  workshop  in 
connection  with  all  amateur  producing.  "  One  of  the  most 
vital  problems  that  the  amateur  group  has  to  solve,"  says  the 
writer,  "  is  that  of  securing  a  proper  place  for  the  preparing  of 
a  production.  Not  all  organizations  can  hold  rehearsals,  paint 
scenery,  experiment  with  lighting  on  costumes  and  scenery  on 


Iviil  INTRODUCTION 

the  stage  on  which  they  are  finally  to  play.  Even  where  this 
is  possible,  it  is  costly.  Much  of  the  activity  is  now  carried  on 
in  the  homes  of  members  so  far  as  rehearsals  go;  in  barns  or 
garages  as  regards  the  painting  of  scenery  and  not  at  all  so  far 
as  the  lighting  question  is  concerned.  More  often  than  not, 
a  few  hasty  final  rehearsals  are  relied  upon  to  pull  into  shape 
some  of  the  most  important  elements  of  a  satisfactory  per- 
formance. 

"  The  remedy  lies  in  the  acquisition  of  a  workshop.  A  large 
room  with  a  very  high  ceiling  will  serve  admirably.  But  you 
must  be  able  to  work  recklessly  in  it,  sawing  wood,  hammering 
nails,  mussing  things  up  generally  with  paint  and  riddling  the 
walls  and  ceiling  with  hooks  and  screws  to  hang  lighting  ap- 
paratus and  other  properties.  An  old-fashioned  barn  can  be 
converted  into  an  ideal  workshop,  if  provision  is  made  for 
proper  heating.  All  the  activity  should  be  concentrated  in  the 
workshop  and  there  is  no  reason  why  all  the  experimentalists 
cannot  be  at  work  at  once — the  carpenters,  the  scene  painters, 
the  electricians,  the  property  men,  and  even  the  actors  with 
their  director." 

The  use  of  miniature  model  stages  is  becoming  more  and 
more  common  in  the  schools,  the  preliminary  model  serving  the 
workshop,  until  the  background,  lighting,  properties,  and  cos- 
tumes are  completed.  It  is  an  excellent  thing  for  schools  to 
start  a  collection  of  models  of  famous  theatres  and  notably  suc- 
cessful stage-sets.  The  material  for  these  exists  in  illustrated 
books  and  magazines  and  in  the  mass  of  descriptive  material  in 
regard  to  the  stage  that  is  now  being  published.^ 

Two  school  theatres  designed  especially  for  the  purpose  of 

1  There  is  a  comprehensive  list  of  books  published  by  the  Public 
Library  of  New  York  that  is  an  indispensable  guide  to  amateurs 
interested  in  Little  Theatres  and  play  production  and  in  matters  con- 
nected with  lighting,  scenery,  costumes,  and  theatre  building;  it  is 
W.  B.  Gamble,  The  Dei'elopment  of  Scenic  Art  and  Stage  Machinery, 
New  York,  1920.  Cf.  also  the  articles  of  Irving  Pichel  that  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine.  The 
three  following  books  are  especially  valuable  for  school  theatres: 
Barrett  H.  Clark,  Hoiv  to  Produce  Amateur  Plays,  Boston,  1917; 
Constance  D'Arcy  Mackay,  Costumes  and  Scenery  for  Amateurs.  A 
Practical  Working  Handbook,  New  York,  1915  (the  illustrations  are 
especially  valuable)  ;  and  Evelyn  Hilliard,  Theodora  McCormick, 
Kate  Oglebay,  Amateur  and  Educational  Dramatics,  New  York,  1917. 


Interior  of  the  Beechwood  Theatre. 


Exterior  of  the  Beechwood  Theatre. 


THE  THEATRE  IN  THE  SCHOOL  lix 

fostering  in  the  schools  to  which  they  are  attached  an  interest 
in  the  drama  are  the  Garden  Theatre  of  the  high  school  at 
Montclair,  New  Jersey,  and  the  Beechwood  Theatre  in  the  pri- 
vate school  at  Scarborough-on-Hudson,  New  York,  built  by 
Frank  A.  Vanderlip.  At  Montclair  the  present  high  school 
building  was  completed  in  1914.  To  the  northeast  of  the  building 
at  that  time  was  a  ravine  which  afforded  a  natural  amphitheatre. 
The  site  was  perfect,  and  a  gift  from  a  public-spirited  citizen, 
Mrs.  Henry  Lang,  made  it  possible  to  create  on  this  spot  a 
ver>^  artistic  and  beautiful  place  for  outdoor  performances,  either 
plays  or  pageants. 

On  the  slope  nearest  the  building  are  semi-circular  rows  of 
concrete  seats  accommodating  about  fifteen  hundred  people.  A 
brook  spanned  by  two  arched  bridges  separates  the  audience 
from  the  stage.  Back  of  the  turf  stage  is  a  graveled  stage 
slightly  raised  and  reached  by  two  flights  of  steps.  The  pergola 
and  trees  make  a  beautiful  background.  The  house  in  the  rear 
is  a  part  of  the  plant  and  is  used  for  dressing  and  make-up. 

The  Beechwood  Theatre  within  the  school  has  a  proscenium 
opening  of  t^venty-seven  feet  and  a  stage  depth,  back  to  the 
plaster  horizon,  of  the  same  dimensions.  There  are  two  com- 
plete sets  of  drapery,  one  of  coarse  ecru  linen  and  one  of  blue 
velvet;  there  is  also  a  stock  drawing-room  set  of  thirty  pieces. 
Back  of  the  stage  are  ten  dressing-rooms.  The  lighting  ar- 
rangements are  extraordinarily  complete:  the  theatre  has  a 
standard  electrical  equipment  of  footlights  and  borders  and  a 
switchboard  of  the  best  type  to  which  has  recently  been  added 
the  latest  lighting  devices,  consisting  of  an  X-ray  border,  the 
end  section  of  which  is  on  a  separate  dimmer,  a  thousand- 
watt  centre  floodlight,  six  five-hundred  watt-spotlights,  each  on 
separate  dimmers,  in  the  false  proscenium  or  tormentor,^  and 
a  line  of  one-thousand-watt  floodlights  for  lighting  the  plaster 

^  For  the  explanation  of  this  and  kindred  technical  terms,  see 
Arthur  Edwin  Krows,  Play  Production  in  America,  New  York,   1916. 

Cf.  Maurice  Browne,  The  Temple  of  a  Living  Art.  The  Drama, 
Chicago,  1913,  No.  12,  p.  168:  "Nor  is  this  just  a  question  of  stage 
jargon;  that  man  or  woman  who  would  establish  an  Art  Theatre 
that  is  an  Art  Theatre  and  not  a  pet  rabbit  fed  by  hand,  must  be 
able  to  design  it,  to  ventilate  it,  to  decorate  it,  to  equip  its  stage, 
to  light  it  (and  to  handle  its  lighting  himself,  or  his  electricians 
will  not  listen  to  him),  to  plan  his  costumes  and  scenery,  aye,  and 
at  a  shift,  to  make  them  with  his  own  hand." 


Ix  INTRODUCTION 

sky.  All  of  this  recently  added  equipment  is  controlled  from 
a  separate  portable  switchboard. 

Though  this  plant  was  built  primarily  for  the  school,  it  is  used 
also  by  the  Beechwood  Players,  a  Little  Theatre  organization, 
and  by  other  community  clubs  which  comprise  an  orchestra,  a 
chorus,  a  group  interested  in  the  fine  arts,  and  a  poetry  circle. 
Mr.  Vanderlip  looks  forward  to  the  development  of  a  school 
of  the  arts  of  the  theatre  from  the  nucleus  of  the  Beechwood 
community  clubs.  With  this  idea  in  mind  he  has  just  built 
a  workshop  for  the  Beechwood  Players  in  a  separate  building. 
It  contains  power  woodworking  machines,  and  rooms  for  paint- 
ing scenery  and  for  the  costume  department,  the  latter  con- 
taining power  sewing  machines. 

There  is  no  doubt  but  that  these  two  schools  have  unique 
facilities  for  developing  an  interest  in  the  acted  drama.  But 
artistic  results  have  often  been  secured  in  the  school  theatre 
with  equipment  falling  far  short  of  the  ideal  standards  achieved 
at  Montclair  and  at  Scarborough.  Other  less  fortunate  schools 
are,  moreover,  at  no  particular  disadvantage  when  it  comes  to 
the  class-room  study  of  the  drama  for  which  this  book  is  pri- 
marily planned,  this  work  being  the  first  step  in  the  direction 
of  a  more  intelligent  attitude  toward  modern  plays  and  modern 
theatres.  A  class-room  reading  of  modern  plays  without  any 
accessories,  as  Shakespeare  is  often  read  from  the  seats  and  the 
aisles,  is  one  of  the  most  practical  methods  of  speech  and  voice 
improvement.  Louis  Calvert,  the  eminent  actor,  speaking  of 
this  kind  of  training  says:  "  After  all  it  is  one  of  the  simplest 
things  in  the  world  to  learn  to  speak  correctly,  to  take  thought 
and  begin  and  end  each  word  properly.  ...  A  little  atten- 
tion to  one's  everyday  conversation  will  often  work  wonders. 
If  one  schools  himself  for  a  while  to  speak  a  little  more  slowly, 
and  to  give  each  syllable  its  due,  it  is  surprising  how  naturally 
and  rapidly  his  speech  wnll  clarify.  If  we  take  care  of  the 
consonants,  the  vowels  will  take  care  of  themselves." 

At  the  present  time,  then,  the  theatre  in  the  schools  means 
a  variety  of  things.  It  means  first  and  foremost,  as  suggested 
by  the  latest  college  entrance  requirements,  the  study  of  modern 
plays,  side  by  side  with  the  classics.  It  means  also  the  improve- 
ment of  English  speech,  through  the  interpretation  and  the 
reading  aloud  of  the  text.  It  means  a  study  of  the  new  art 
of  the  theatre  such  as  the  present  book  suggests.     It  means  often 


Ravine   where  the   Garden   Theatre   was  built. 


The  Garden  Theatre. 


THE  THEATRE  IN  THE  SCHOOL  Ixi 

the  presentation  of  plays  before  outside  audiences  and  the  con- 
sequent strengthening  of  the  ties  that  should  exist  between  the 
school  and  the  community.  It  may  mean  the  co-operation  of 
several  departments  of  the  school  in  the  production;  and,  in 
this  case,  it  usually  results  in  the  establishment  of  some  kind 
of  a  workshop.  And  finally,  in  certain  favored  schools,  it 
means  the  erection  of  model  Little  Theatres.  It  seems  fair  to 
suppose  that  this  newly  aroused  interest  in  modern  drama  and 
in  modern  methods  of  production  in  the  schools  will  have  far- 
reaching  results. 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

By 
BOOTH  TARKINGTON 


* 


*  Copyright,  1912,  by  Harper  and  Brothers.  Copyright  in  Great 
Britain.  All  acting  rights  both  amateur  and  professional  reserved  by 
the  author. 


Since  the  days  of  Edward  Eggleston,  Indiana  has  been  ac- 
cumulating literary  traditions  until  at  the  present  time  it  rivals 
New  England  in  the  variety  of  its  literary  associations.  Newton 
Booth  Tarkington,  born  in  Indianapolis  in  1869,  and  continu- 
ing to  make  his  home  there  still  in  the  old  family  house 
on  North  Pennsylvania  Street,  is  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
of  the  Hoosier  writers.  As  a  lad  of  eleven  he  began  his  friend- 
ship with  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  then  a  neighbor.  "  He 
acknowledges  (shaking  his  head  in  reflection  at  the  depth  of 
it)  that  the  spirit  of  Riley  has  exercised  over  him  a  strong,  if 
often  unconsciously  felt,  influence  all  his  life."  The  delicious 
stories  of  Penrod  and  of  the  William  Sylvanus  Baxter  of  Seven- 
teen that  Booth  Tarkington  has  told  for  the  unalloyed  delight 
of  old  and  young  are  said  to  reproduce  quite  accurately  the 
author's  recollection  of  his  own  boyhood  pranks  and  associations 
in  the  Middle-Western  city  of  his  birth.  Tarkington  went  first 
to  Phillips  Exeter  Academy  and  later  to  Purdue  University 
at  Lafayette,  Indiana,  before  he  became  a  member  of  the  class 
of  '93  at  Princeton.  His  popularity  and  his  good  fellowship 
are  still  cherished  memories  on  the  campus. 

It  seems  that  he  was  infallibly  associated  in  the  undergraduate 
mind  with  the  singing  of  Danny  Deever;  so  much  so,  that 
whenever  he  appeared  on  the  steps  at  Nassau  Hall  there  would 
be  an  immediate  demand  for  his  speciality,  a  demand  that  often 
caused  him  to  retire  as  inconspicuously  as  possible  from  the 
crowd.  These  old  days  are  commemorated  in  the  following 
verses,  a  copy  of  which,  framed,  hangs  on  the  walls  of  the 
Princeton  Club  in  New  York. 

RONDEL 

"  The  same  old  Tark — just  watch  him  shy 
Like  hunted  thing,  and  hide,  if  let, 
Away  behind  his  cigarette, 
When  '  Danny  Deever  '  is  the  cry. 

Keep  up  the  call   and  by   and  by 
We'll  make  him  sing,  and  find  he's  yet 
The  same  old  Tark. 
3 


4  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

No  '  Author  Leonid '  we  spy 

In  him,   no  cultured   ladies'  pet: 

He  just  drops  in,  and  so  we  get 
The  good  old  song,  and  gently  guy 
The  same  old  Tark — just  watch  him  shy!  " 

No  biography  of  Booth  Tarkington,  no  matter  how  brief, 
should  omit  to  mention  that  he  was  elected  to  the  Indiana  State 
Legislature  and  sat  for  a  time  in  that  body,  where  he  accumu- 
lated, no  doubt,  some  data  on  the  subject  of  Indiana  politics 
that  he  may  afterwards  have  put  to  literary  use. 

He  has  found  the  subject  for  most  of  his  novels  and  plays  ^ 
in  contemporary  American  life,  which  he  treats  unsentimentally, 
spiritedly,  and  vigorously.  Beauty  and  the  Jacobin,  like  his 
famous  and  fascinating  tale,  Monsieur  Beaucaire,  is  exceptional 
among  his  works  in  deserting  the  modern  American  scene  for 
an  Eighteenth  Century  situation.  The  story  and  the  play  are 
likely,  for  this  reason,  to  be  compared.  The  tone  of  Monsieur 
Beaucaire  is  more  urbane,  more  whimsical,  more  romantic  than 
the  mood  of  Beauty  and  the  Jacobin  which  "  breaks  with  the 
pretty,  pretty  kind  of  thing.  There  is  a  new  quality  in  the 
texture  of  the  writing.  .  .  .  The  plot  here  springs  directly 
from  character,  and  the  action  of  the  piece  is  inevitable.  Beauty 
and  the  Jacobin  gives  evidence  of  being  the  first  conscious  and 
determined,  as  it  is  the  first  consistent,  effort  of  the  author  to 
leave  the  surface  and  work  from  the  inside  of  his  characters 
out.  .  .  .  The  whole  of  the  little  drama  is  scintillant  with 
wit,  delicate  and  at  times  brilliant  and  somewhat  Shavian,  which 
flashes    out    poignantly    against    the    sombreness    of    its    back- 

Beauty  and  the  Jacobin  was  published  in  1912  and  has  had 
at  least  one  performance  on  the  professional  stage.  On  No- 
vember 12,  19 12,  it  was  played  by  members  of  the  company 
then  acting  in  Fanny's  First  Play,  at  a  matinee  at  the  Comedy 
Theatre,  in  New  York.  It  has  always  been  a  favorite  with 
amateurs  and  quite  recently  was  performed  in  St.  Louis  by  one 
of  the  dramatic  clubs  of  that  city. 

1  For  a  bibliography  of  his  works  through  the  year  1913,  see  Asa 
Don  Dickinson,  Booth  Tarkington,  a  Gentleman  from  Indiana, 
Garden  City,  no  date. 

*  Robert  Cortes  Holliday,  Booth  Tarkington,  Garden  City  and 
New  York,  1918,  pp.  155-156;  p.  157. 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Our  scene  is  in  a  rusty  lodging-house  of  the  Lower  Town, 
Boulogne-sur-Mer,  and  the  time,  the  early  twilight  of  dark 
November  in  northern  France.  This  particular  November 
is  dark  indeed,  for  it  is  November  of  the  year  1793, 
Frimaire  of  the  Terror.  The  garret  room  disclosed  to 
us,  like  the  evening  lowering  outside  its  one  window,  and 
like  the  times,  is  mysterious,  obscure,  smoked  with  per- 
plexing shadows;  these  flying  and  staggering  to  echo  the 
shif tings  of  a  young  man  writing  at  a  desk  by  the  light 
of  a  candle. 

We  are  just  under  the  eaves  here;  the  dim  ceiling  slants;  and 
there  are  tivo  doors:  that  in  the  rear  wall  is  closed;  the 
other,  upon  our  right,  and  evidently  leading  to  an  inner 
chamber,  we  find  ajar.  The  furniture  of  this  mean  apart- 
ment is  chipped,  faded,  insecure,  yet  still  possessed  of  a 
haggard  elegance;  shajned  odds  and  ends,  cheaply  acquired 
by  the  proprietor  of  the  lodging-house,  no  doubt  at  an 
auction  of  the  confiscated  leavings  of  some  emigrant  noble. 
The  single  window,  square  and  mustily  curtained,  is  so 
small  that  it  cannot  be  imagined  to  admit  much  light  on 
the  brightest  of  days;  however,  it  might  afford  a  lodger 
a  limited  view  of  the  houses  opposite  and  the  street  below. 
In  fact,  as  our  eyes  groiu  accustomed  to  the  obscurity  we 
discover  it  serving  this  very  purpose  at  the  present  moment, 
for  a  tall  woman  stands  close  by  in  the  shadoiu,  peering 
between  the  curtains  with  the  distrustfulness  of  a  picket 
thrown  far  out  into  an  enemy's  country.  Her  coarse 
blouse  and  skirt,  new  and  as  ill-fitting  as  sacks,  her  shop- 
woman's  bonnet  and  cheap  veil,  and  her  rough  shoes  are 
naively  denied  by  her  sensitive,  pale  hands  and  the  high- 
bred and  in-bred  face,  long  profoundly  marked  by  loss 
and  fear,  and  now  very  white,  very  watchful.  She  is  not 
more  than  forty,  but  her  hair,  glimpsed  beneath  the  clumsy 
bonnet,  shows  much  grayer  than  need  be  at  that  age.  This 
is  Anne  de  Laseyne. 

5 


6  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

The  intent  young  7nan  at  the  desk,  easily  recognizable  as  her 
brother,  fair  and  of  a  singular  physical  delicacy,  is  a  finely 
completed  product  of  his  race ;  one  would  pronounce  him 
gentle  in  each  sense  of  the  word.  His  costume  rivals  his 
sister's  in  the  innocence  of  its  attempt  at  disguise:  he  wears 
a  carefully  soiled  carter's  frock,  rough  neviX  gaiters,  and 
a  pair  of  dangerously  aristocratic  shoes,  which  are  not  too 
dusty  to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  are  of  excellent  make 
and  lately  sported  buckles.  A  tousled  cap  of  rabbit-skin, 
exhibiting  a  tricolor  cockade,  croiuns  these  anomalies, 
though  not  at  present  his  thin,  blond  curls,  for  it  has  been 
tossed  upon  a  dressing-table  which  stands  against  the  wall 
to  the  left.  He  is  younger  than  Madame  de  Laseyne, 
probably  by  more  than  ten  years;  and,  though  his  features 
so  strikingly  resemble  hers,  they  are  free  from  the  per- 
manent impress  of  pain  which  she  bears  like  a  mourning- 
badge  upon  her  own. 

He  is  expending  a  feverish  attention  upon  his  task,  but  with 
patently  unsatisfactory  results;  for  he  whispers  and  mutters 
to  hirnself,  bites  the  feather  of  his  pen,  shakes  his  head 
forebodingly,  and  again  and  again  crumples  a  written  sheet 
and  throws  it  upon  the  floor.  Whenever  this  happens 
Anne  de  Laseyne  casts  a  white  glance  at  him  over  her 
shoulder — his  desk  is  in  the  center  of  the  room — her 
anxiety  is  visibly  increased,  and  the  temptation  to  speak 
less  and  less  easily  controlled,  until  at  last  she  gives  way 
to  it.     Her  voice  is  low  and  hurried. 

Anne.     Louis,  it  is  growing  dark  very  fast. 

Louis.  I  had  not  observed  it,  my  sister.  [He  lights  a 
second  candle  from  the  first;  then,  pen  in  mouth,  scratches  at 
his  writing  with  a  little  knife.] 

Anne.  People  are  still  crowding  in  front  of  the  wine-shop 
across  the  street. 

Louis  [smiling  with  one  side  of  his  mouth].  Naturally. 
Reading  the  list  of  the  proscribed  that  came  at  noon.  Also 
waiting,  amiable  vultures,  for  the  next  bulletin  from  Paris. 
It  will  give  the  names  of  those  guillotined  day  before  yesterday. 
For  a  good  bet:  our  own  names  [he  nods  toward  the  other 
room] — yes,  hers,  too — are  all  three  in  the  former.  As  for 
the  latter — well,  they  can't  get  us  in  that  now. 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  7 

Anne  [eagerly].     Then  you  are  certain  that  we  are  safe? 

Louis.  I  am  certain  only  that  they  cannot  murder  us  day 
before  yesterday.  \As  he  bends  his  head  to  his  writing  a 
woman  comes  in  languidly  through  the  open  door,  bearing  an 
armful  of  garments,  among  which  one  catches  the  gleam  of 
fine  silk,  glimpses  of  lace  and  rich  furs — a  disordered  burden 
which  she  dumps  pell-mell  into  a  large  portmanteau  lying  open 
upon  a  chair  near  the  desk.  This  new-comer  is  of  a  startling 
gold-and-ivory  beauty;  a  beauty  quite  literally  striking,  for  at 
the  very  first  glance  the  whole  force  of  it  hits  the  beholder  like 
a  snowball  in  the  eye;  a  beauty  so  obvious,  so  completed,  so 
rounded,  that  it  is  painful;  a  beauty  to  rivet  the  unenvious  stare 
of  women,  but  from  the  full  blast  of  which  either  king  or 
man-peasant  would  stagger  away  to  the  confessional.  The 
egregious  luster  of  it  is  not  breathed  upon  even  by  its  over- 
spreading of  sullen  revolt,  as  its  possessor  carelessly  arranges 
the  garments  in  the  portmanteau.  She  wears  a  dress  all  gray, 
of  a  coarse  texture,  but  exquisitely  fitted  to  her;  nothing  could 
possibly  be  plainer,  or  of  a  more  revealing  simplicity.  She  might 
be  twenty-two;  at  least  it  is  certain  that  she  is  not  thirty. 
At  her  coming,  Louis  looks  up  with  a  sigh  of  poignant  wistful- 
ness,  evidently  a  habit;  for  as  he  leans  back  to  watch  her  he 
sighs  again.  She  does  not  so  much  as  glance  at  him,  but  speaks 
absently  to  Madame  de  Laseyne.  Her  voice  is  superb,  as  it 
should  be;  deep  and  musical,  with  a  faint,  silvery  huskiness.] 

Eloise  [the  new-comer].     Is  he  still  there? 

Anne.  I  lost  sight  of  him  in  the  crowd.  I  think  he  has 
gone.     If  only  he  does  not  come  back! 

Louis  [with  grim  conviction].     He  will. 

Anne.     I  am  trying  to  hope  not. 

Eloise.  I  have  told  you  from  the  first  that  you  overestimate 
his  importance.     Haven't  I  said  it  often  enough? 

Anne  [under  her  breath].     You  have! 

Eloise  [coldly].     He  will  not  harm  you. 

Anne  [looking  out  of  the  window].  More  people  down 
there;  they  are  running  to  the  wine-shop. 

Louis.  Gentle  idlers!  [The  sound  of  triumphant  shout- 
ing comes  up  from  the  street  below.]  That  means  that  the 
list  of  the  guillotined  has  arrived  from  Paris. 

Anne  [shivering].  They  are  posting  it  in  the  wine-shop  win- 


8  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

dow.  [The  shouting  increases  suddenly  to  a  roar  of  hilarity, 
in  which  the  shrilling  of  women  ?ningles.\ 

Louis.  Ah!  One  remarks  that  the  list  is  a  long  one.  The 
good  people  are  well  satisfied  with  it.  [To  Eloise]  My  cousin, 
in  this  amiable  populace  which  you  champion,  do  you  never 
scent  something  of — well,  something  of  the  graveyard  scav- 
enger? [She  offers  the  response  of  an  unmoved  glance  in  his 
direction,  and  slowly  goes  out  by  the  door  at  which  she  entered. 
Louis  sighs  again  and  returns  to  his  scribbling.]^ 

Anne   [nervously].     Haven't  you  finished,  Louis? 

Louis  [indicating  the  floor  strewn  with  crumpled  slips  of 
paper].     A  dozen. 

Anne.     Not  good  enough? 

Louis  [with  a  rueful  smile].  I  have  lived  to  discover  that 
among  all  the  disadvantages  of  being  a  Peer  of  France  the 
most  dangerous  is  that  one  is  so  poor  a  forger.  Truly,  how- 
ever, our  parents  are  not  to  be  blamed  for  neglecting  to  have 
me  instructed  in  this  art;  evidently  they  perceived  I  had  no 
talent  for  it.  [Lifting  a  sheet  from  the  desk.]  Oh,  vile!  I 
am  not  even  an  amateur.  [He  leans  back,  tapping  the  paper 
thoughtfully  with  his  pen.]  Do  you  suppose  the  Fates  took  all 
the  trouble  to  make  the  Revolution  simply  to  teach  me  that  I 
have  no  skill  in  forgery?  Listen.  [He  reads  what  he  has 
written.]  "  Committee  of  Public  Safety.  In  the  name  of  the 
Republic.  To  all  Officers,  Civil  and  Military:  Permit  the 
Citizen  Balsage  " — that's  myself,  remember — "  and  the  Citi- 
zeness  Virginie  Balsage,  his  sister  " — that's  you,  Anne — "  and 
the  Citizeness  Marie  Balsage,  his  second  sister " — that  is 
Eloise,  you  understand — "  to  embark  in  the  vessel  Jeune 
Pierrette  from  the  port  of  Boulogne  for  Barcelona.  Signed: 
Billaud  Varennes.  Carnot.  Robespierre."  Execrable!  [He 
tears  up  the  paper,  scattering  the  fragments  on  the  floor.]  I 
am  not  even  sure  it  is  the  proper  form.     Ah,  that  Dossonville! 

Anne.     But  Dossonville  helped  us — 

Louis.  At  a  price.  Dossonville!  An  individual  of  marked 
attainment,  not  only  in  penmanship,  but  in  the  art  of  plausi- 
bility. Before  I  paid  him  he  swore  that  the  passports  he  forged 
for  us  would  take  us  not  only  out  of  Paris,  but  out  of  the 
country. 

Anne.  Are  you  sure  we  must  have  a  separate  permit  to 
embark? 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  9 

Louis.  The  captain  of  the  Jeune  Pierrette  sent  one  of  his 
sailors  to  tell  me.  There  is  a  new  Commissioner  from  the  Na- 
tional Committee,  he  said,  and  a  special  order  was  issued  this 
morning.  They  have  an  officer  and  a  file  of  the  National 
Guard  on  the  quay  to  see  that  the  order  is  obeyed. 

Anne.    But  we  bought  passports  in  Paris.    Why  can't  we 

here  ? 

Louis.  Send  out  a  street-crier  for  an  accomplished  forger? 
My  poor  Anne !  We  can  only  hope  that  the  lieutenant  on  the 
quay  may  be  drunk  when  he  examines  my  dreadful  "  permit." 
Pray  a  great  thirst  upon  him,  my  sister!  {He  looks  at  a  watch 
which  he  draws  from  beneath  his  frock.]  Four  o'clock.  At 
five  the  tide  in  the  river  is  poised  at  its  highest;  then  it  must 
run  out,  and  the  Jeune  Pierrette  with  it.  We  have  an  hour. 
I  return  to  my  crime.  [He  takes  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  and 
begins  to  write.] 

Anne  [urgently].     Hurry,  Louis! 

Louis.     Watch  for  Master  Spy. 

Anne.  I  cannot  see  him.  [There  is  silence  for  a  time, 
broken  only  by  the  nervous  scratching  of  Louis's  pen.] 

Louis  [at  work].     Still  you  don't  see  him? 

Anne.  No.  The  people  are  dispersing.  They  seem  in  a 
good  humor. 

Louis.  Ah,  if  they  knew —  [He  breaks  off,  examines  his 
latest  effort  attentively,  and  finds  it  unsatisfactory,  as  is  evinced 
by  the  noiseless  whistle  of  disgust  to  which  his  lips  form  them- 
selves. He  discards  the  sheet  and  begins  another,  speaking 
rather  absently  as  he  does  so.]  I  suppose  I  have  the  distinction 
to  be  one  of  the  most  hated  men  in  our  country,  now  that  all 
the  decent  people  have  left  it — so  many  by  a  road  something 
of  the  shortest!  Yes,  these  merry  gentlemen  below  there  would 
be  still  merrier  if  they  knew  they  had  within  their  reach  a  for- 
feited "  Emigrant."  I  wonder  how  long  it  would  take  them 
to  climb  the  breakneck  flights  to  our  door.  Lord,  there'd  be 
a  race  for  it !  Prize-money,  too,  I  fancy,  for  the  first  with  his 
bludgeon. 

Anne  [lamentably].  Louis,  Louis!  Why  didn't  you  lie 
safe  in  England? 

Louis  [smiling].  Anne,  Anne!  I  had  to  come  back  for  a 
good  sister  of  mine. 

Anne.    But  I  could  have  escaped  alone. 


lo  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Louis.  That  is  it — "  alone  " !  [He  lowers  his  voice  as  he 
glances  toiuard  the  open  door.]  For  she  would  not  have  moved 
at  all  if  I  hadn't  come  to  bully  her  into  it.    A  fanatic,  a  fanatic! 

Anne  [brusquely].  She  is  a  fool.  Therefore  be  patient 
with  her. 

Louis  [warningly].     Hush. 

Eloise  [in  a  loud,  careless  tone  from  the  other  room].  Oh, 
I  heard  you!  What  does  it  matter?  [She  returns,  carrying 
a  handsome  skirt  and  bodice  of  brocade  and  a  woman's  long 
mantle  of  light-green  cloth,  hooded  and  lined  with  fur.  She 
drops  them  into  the  portmanteau  and  closes  it.]  There! 
I've  finished  your  packing  for  you. 

Louis  [rising].  My  cousin,  I  regret  that  we  could  not 
provide  servants  for  this  flight.  [Bowing  formally.]  I  re- 
gret that  we  have  been  compelled  to  ask  you  to  do  a  share  of 
what  is  necessary. 

Eloise   [turning  to  go  out  again].     That  all? 

Louis   [lifting  the  portmanteau].     I  fear — 

Eloise  [with  assumed  fatigue].  Yes,  you  usually  do. 
What  now? 

Louis  [flushing  painfully].  The  portmanteau  is  too  heavy. 
[He  returns  to  the  desk,  sits,  and  busies  himself  with  his  writ- 
ing, keeping  his  grieved  face  from  her  view.] 

Eloise.     You  mean  you're  too  weak  to  carry  it? 

Louis.  Suppose  at  the  last  moment  it  becomes  necessary  to 
hasten  exceedingly — 

Eloise.  You  mean,  suppose  you  had  to  run,  you'd  throw 
away  the  portmanteau.  [Contemptuously.]  Oh,  I  don't  doubt 
you'd  do  it! 

Louis  [forcing  himself  to  look  up  at  her  cheerfully].  I 
dislike  to  leave  my  baggage  upon  the  field,  but  in  case  of  a 
rout  it  might  be  a  temptation — if  it  were  an  impediment. 

Anne  [peremptorily].  Don't  waste  time.  Lighten  the  port- 
manteau. 

Louis.    You  may  take  out  everything  of  mine. 

Eloise.  There's  nothing  of  yours  in  it  except  your  cloak. 
You  don't  suppose — 

Anne.    Take  out  that  heavy  brocade  of  mine. 

Eloise.  Thank  you  for  not  wishing  to  take  out  my  fur- 
lined  cloak  and  freezing  me  at  sea! 

Louis  [gently].    Take  out  both  the  cloak  and  the  dress. 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  ii 

Eloise  [astounded].    What! 

Louis.  You  shall  have  mine.  It  is  as  warm,  but  not  so 
heavy. 

Eloise  [a?7ffrily].  Oh,  I  am  sick  of  your  eternal  packing 
and  unpacking!     I  am  sick  of  it! 

Anne.  Watch  at  the  w^indovv,  then.  [She  goes  swiftly  to 
the  portmanteau,  opens  it,  tosses  out  the  green  mantle  and  the 
brocaded  skirt  and  bodice,  and  tests  the  weight  of  the  port- 
manteau.]     I  think  it  will  be  light  enough  now,  Louis. 

Louis.  Do  not  leave  those  things  in  sight.  If  our  landlord 
should  come  in — 

Anne.  I'll  hide  them  in  the  bed  in  the  next  room.  Eloise! 
[She  points  imperiously  to  the  window.  Eloise  goes  to  it 
sloiuly  and  for  a  moment  makes  a  scornful  pretense  of  being 
on  watch  there;  but  as  soon  as  Madame  de  Laseyne  has  left 
the  room  she  turns,  leaning  against  the  wall  and  regarding 
Louis  with  languid  amusement.  He  continues  to  struggle 
with  his  ill-omened  "  permit,"  hut,  by  and  by,  becoming  aware 
of  her  gaze,  glances  consciously  over  his  shouder  and  meets  her 
half-veiled  eyes.  Coloring,  he  looks  away,  stares  dreamily  at 
nothing,  sighs,  and  finally  writes  again,  absently,  like  a  man 
under  a  spell,  which,  indeed,  he  is.  The  pen  drops  from  his 
hand  with  a  faint  click  upon  the  floor.  He  makes  the  move- 
ment of  a  person  suddenly  awakened,  and,  holding  his  last  writ- 
ing near  one  of  the  candles,  examines  it  critically.  Then  he 
breaks  into  low,  bitter  laughter.] 

Eloise  [unwillingly  curious].  You  find  something  amus- 
ing? 

Louis.     Myself.     One  of  my  mistakes,  that  is  all. 

Eloise  [indifferently].  Your  mirth  must  be  indefatigable 
if  you  can  still  laugh  at  those. 

Louis.     I  agree.     I  am  a  history  of  error. 

Eloise.  You  should  have  made  it  a  vocation;  it  is  your  one 
genius.  And  yet — truly  because  I  am  a  fool  I  think,  as  Anne 
says — I  let  you  hector  me  into  a  sillier  mistake  than  any  of 
yours. 

Louis.    When? 

Eloise  [flinging  out  her  arms].  Oh,  when  I  consented  to 
this  absurd  journey,  this  tiresome  journey — with  you!  An 
"escape"?  From  nothing.  In  "disguise."  Which  doesn't 
disguise. 


12  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Louis  [his  voice  taut  with  the  effort  for  self-command]. 
My  sister  asked  me  to  be  patient  with  you,  Eloise — 

Eloise.  Because  I  am  a  fool,  yes.  Thanks.  [Shrewishly.] 
And  then,  my  worthy  young  man  ?  [He  rises  abruptly,  smart- 
ing almost  beyond  endurance.] 

Louis  [breathing  deeply].  Have  I  not  been  patient  with 
you? 

Eloise  [with  a  flash  of  energy].  If  /  have  asked  you  to  be 
anything  whatever — with  me! — pray  recall  the  petition  to  my 
memory. 

Louis  [beginning  to  let  himself  go].  Patient!  Have  I  ever 
been  anything  but  patient  with  you?  Was  I  not  patient  with 
you  five  years  ago  when  you  first  harangued  us  on  your  "  Rights 
of  Man  "  and  your  monstrous  republicanism?  Where  you  got 
hold  of  it  all  I  don't  know — 

Eloise  [kindling].  Ideas,  my  friend.  Naturally,  incom- 
prehensible to  you.     Books!     Brains!     Men! 

Louis.  "Books!  Brains!  Men!"  Treason,  poison,  and 
mobs!  Oh,  I  could  laugh  at  you  then:  they  were  only  begin- 
ning to  kill  us,  and  I  was  patient.  Was  I  not  patient  with 
you  when  these  Republicans  of  yours  drove  us  from  our  homes, 
from  our  country,  stole  all  we  had,  assassinated  us  in  dozens, 
in  hundreds,  murdered  our  King?  [He  walks  the  floor,  ges- 
ticulating nervously.]  When  I  saw  relative  after  relative  of 
my  own — aye,  and  of  yours,  too — dragged  to  the  abattoir — 
even  poor,  harmless,  kind  Andre  de  Laseyne,  whom  they  took 
simply  because  he  was  my  brother-in-law — was  I  not  patient? 
And  when  I  came  back  to  Paris  for  you  and  Anne,  and  had 
to  lie  hid  in  a  stable,  every  hour  in  greater  danger  because  you 
would  not  be  persuaded  to  join  us,  was  I  not  patient?  And 
when  you  finally  did  consent,  but  protested  every  step  of  the 
way,  pouting  and — 

Eloise  [stung].    "Pouting!" 

Louis.  And  when  that  stranger  came  posting  after  us  so 
obvious  a  sp3' — 

Eloise  [scornfully].    Pooh!     He  is  nothing. 

Louis.  Is  there  a  league  between  here  and  Paris  over  which 
he  has  not  dogged  us?  By  diligence,  on  horseback,  on  foot, 
turning  up  at  every  posting-house,  every  roadside  inn,  the  while 
you  laughed  at  me  because  I  read  death  in  his  face!  These 
two  days  we  have  been  here,  is  there  an  hour  when  you  could 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  13 

look  from  that  window  except  to  see  him  grinning  up  from 
the  wine-shop  door  down  there? 

Eloise  [impatiently,  but  with  a  somewhat  conscious  ex- 
pression]. I  tell  you  not  to  fear  him.  There  is  nothing 
in  it. 

Louis  [looking  at  her  keenly].  Be  sure  I  understand  why 
you  do  not  think  him  a  spy!  You  believe  he  has  followed  us 
because  you — 

Eloise.  I  expected  that!  Oh,  I  knew  it  would  come! 
[Furiously.]     I  never  saw  the  man  before  in  my  life! 

Louis  [pacing  the  floor].  He  is  unmistakable;  his  trade  is 
stamped  on  him ;  a  hired  trailer  of  your  precious  "  Nation's." 

Eloise  [haughtily].  The  Nation  is  the  People.  You 
malign  because  you  fear.     The  People  is  sacred ! 

Louis  [with  increasing  bitterness].  Aren't  you  tired  yet  of 
the  Palais  Royal  platitudes?  I  have  been  patient  with  your 
Mericourtisms  for  so  long.  Yes,  always  I  was  patient.  Al- 
ways there  was  time;  there  was  danger,  but  there  was  a  little 
time.  [He  faces  her,  his  voice  becoming  louder,  his  gestures 
more  vehement.]  But  now  the  Jeune  Pierrette  sails  this  hour, 
and  if  we  are  not  out  of  here  and  on  her  deck  when  she  leaves 
the  quay,  my  head  rolls  in  Samson's  basket  within  the  week, 
with  Anne's  and  your  own  to  follow!  Now,  I  tell  you,  there 
is  no  more  time,  and  now — 

Eloise  [suavely].  Yes?  Well?  "Now?"  [He  checks 
himself;  his  lifted  hand  falls  to  his  side.] 

Louis  [in  a  gentle  voice].  I  am  still  patient.  [He  looks 
into  her  eyes,  makes  her  a  low  and  formal  obeisance,  and  drops 
dejectedly  into  the  chair  at  the  desk.] 

Eloise   [dangerously].     Is  the  oration  concluded? 

Louis,    Quite. 

Eloise  [suddenly  volcanic].  Then  "noiu"  you'll  perhaps 
be  "  patient  "  enough  to  explain  why  I  shouldn't  leave  you  in- 
stantly. Understand  fully  that  I  have  come  thus  far  with  you 
and  Anne  solely  to  protect  you  in  case  you  were  suspected. 
"Now,"  my  little  man,  you  are  safe:  you  have  only  to  go  on 
board  your  vessel.  Why  should  I  go  with  you?  Why  do  you 
insist  on  dragging  me  out  of  the  country? 

Louis  [wearily].     Only  to  save  your  life;  that  is  all. 

Eloise.  My  life!  Tut!  My  life  is  safe  with  the  People 
— my  People!      [She  draivs  herself  up   rnagnificently.]      The 


14  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Nation  would  protect  me!  I  gave  the  people  my  whole  for- 
tune when  they  were  starving.  After  that,  who  in  France  dare 
lay  a  finger  upon  the  Citizeness  Eloise  d'Anville! 

Louis.  I  have  the  idea  sometimes,  my  cousin,  that  perhaps 
if  you  had  not  given  them  your  property  they  would  have 
taken  it,  anyway.     [Dryly.]     They  did  mine. 

Eloise  [agitated] .  I  do  not  expect  you  to  comprehend  what 
I  felt — what  I  feel!  [She  lifts  her  arms  longingly.]  Oh,  for 
a  Man! — a  Man  who  could  understand  me! 

Louis   [sadly].     That  excludes  me! 

Eloise.    Shall  I  spell  it? 

Louis.  You  are  right.  So  far  from  understanding  you,  I 
understand  nothing.  The  age  is  too  modern  for  me.  I  do  not 
understand  why  this  rabble  is  permitted  to  rule  France;  I  do 
not  even  understand  why  it  is  permitted  to  live. 

Eloise  [with  superiority].  Because  you  belong  to  the  class 
that  thought  itself  made  of  porcelain  and  the  rest  of  the  world 
clay.     It  is  simple:  the  mud-ball  breaks  the  vase. 

Louis.  You  belong  to  the  same  class,  even  to  the  same 
family. 

Eloise.  You  are  wrong.  One  circumstance  proves  me  no 
aristocrat. 

Louis.    What  circumstance? 

Eloise.  That  I  happened  to  be  born  with  brains.  I  can 
account  for  it  only  by  supposing  some  hushed-up  ancestral 
scandal.     [Brusquely.]     Do  you  understand  that? 

Louis.     I  overlook  it.     [He  writes  again.] 

Eloise.  Quibbling  was  always  a  habit  of  yours.  [Snap- 
ping at  him  irritably.]  Oh,  stop  that  writing!  You  can't  do 
it,  and  you  don't  need  it.  You  blame  the  people  because  they 
turn  on  you  now,  after  you've  whipped  and  beaten  and  ground 
them  underfoot  for  centuries  and  centuries  and — 

Louis.     Quite  a  career  for  a  man  of  twenty-nine! 

Eloise.     I  have  said  that  quibbling  was — 

Louis  [despondently].  Perhaps  it  is.  To  return  to  my 
other  deficiencies,  I  do  not  understand  why  this  spy  who  fol- 
lowed us  from  Paris  has  not  arrested  me  long  before  now.  I 
do  not  understand  why  you  hate  me.  I  do  not  understand 
the  world  in  general.  And  in  particular  I  do  not  understand 
the  art  of  forgery.     [He  throws  down  his  pen.] 

Eloise.     You  talk  of  "patience"!     How  often  have  I  ex- 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  15 

plained  that  you  would  not  need  passports  of  any  kind  if  you 
would  let  me  throw  off  my  incognito.  If  anyone  questions 
you,  it  will  be  sufficient  if  I  give  my  name.  All  France  knows 
the  Citizeness  Eloise  d'Anville.  Do  you  suppose  the  officer  on 
the  quay  would  dare  oppose — 

Louis  [with  a  gesture  of  resignation].     I  know  you  think  it. 

Eloise  [angrily].  You  tempt  me  not  to  prove  it.  But  for 
Anne's  sake — 

Louis.  Not  for  mine.  That,  at  least,  I  understand.  [He 
rises.]     My  dear  cousin,  I  am  going  to  be  very  serious — 

Eloise.     O  heaven!     [She  flings  away  from  him.] 

Louis  [plaintively],    I  shall  not  make  another  oration — 

Eloise.  Make  anything  you  choose.  [Drumming  the  floor 
with  her  foot.]     What  does  it  matter? 

Louis.    I  have  a  presentiment — I  ask  you  to  listen — 

Eloise  [in  her  irritation  almost  screaming].  How  can  I 
Af//>  but  listen ?  And  Anne,  too!  [With  a  short  laugh.]  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  when  that  door  is  open  everything 
you  say  in  this  room  is  heard  in  there.  [She  points  to  the  open 
doorway,  where  Madame  de  Laseyne  instantly  makes  her 
appearance,  and  after  exchanging  one  fiery  glance  with  Eloise 
as  siviftly  withdraws,  closing  the  door  behind  her  with  out- 
raged emphasis.] 

Eloise    [breaking  into  a  laugh].     Forward,  soldiers! 

Louis  [reprovingly].     Eloise! 

Eloise.  Well,  open  the  door,  then,  if  you  want  her  to  hear 
you  make  love  to  me!  [Coolly.]  That's  what  you're  going 
to  do,  isn't  it? 

Louis  [icith  imperfect  self-control],  I  wish  to  ask  you  for 
the  last  time — 

Eloise  [flouting].    There  are  so  many  last  times! 

Louis.  To  ask  you  if  you  are  sure  that  you  know  your  own 
heart.     You  cared  for  me  once,  and — 

Eloise  [as  if  this  were  news  indeed].  I  did?  Who  under 
heaven  ever  told  you  that? 

Louis  [flushing].  You  allowed  yourself  to  be  betrothed  to 
me,  I  believe. 

Eloise.  "  Allowed  "  is  the  word,  precisely.  I  seem  to  recall 
changing  all  that  the  very  day  I  became  an  orphan — and  my 
own  master!  [Satirically  polite.]  Pray  correct  me  if  my 
memory  errs.     How  long  ago  was  it?     Six  years?     Seven? 


i6  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Louis  [with  emotion].  Eloise,  Eloise,  you  did  love  me  then! 
We  were  happy,  both  of  us,  so  very  happy — 

Eloise  [sourly],  "Both!"  My  faith!  But  I  must  have 
been  a  brave  little  actress. 

Louis.  I  do  not  believe  it.  You  loved  me.  I —  [He 
hesitates.] 

Eloise.    Do  get  on  with  what  you  have  to  say. 

Louis  [in  a  low  voice],  I  have  many  forebodings,  Eloise, 
but  the  strongest — and  for  me  the  saddest — is  that  this  is  the 
last  chance  you  will  ever  have  to  tell — to  tell  me —  [He  fal- 
ters again.] 

Eloise  [irritated  beyond  measure,  shouting].  To  tell  you 
what? 

Louis   [swalloiuing].     That  your  love  for  me  still  lingers. 

Eloise  [promptly].    Well,  it  doesn't.     So  that's  over! 

Louis.     Not  quite  yet.     I — 

Eloise  [dropping  into  a  chair],    O  Death! 

Louis  [still  gently].  Listen.  I  have  hope  that  you  and 
Anne  may  be  permitted  to  escape;  but  as  for  me,  since  the  first 
moment  I  felt  the  eyes  of  that  spy  from  Paris  upon  me  I  have 
had  the  premonition  that  I  would  be  taken  back — to  the  guil- 
lotine, Eloise.  I  am  sure  that  he  will  arrest  me  when  I  attempt 
to  leave  this  place  to-night.  [With  sorroiuful  earnestness.] 
And  it  is  with  the  certainty  in  my  soul  that  this  is  our  last  hour 
together  that  I  ask  you  if  you  cannot  tell  me  that  the  old  love 
has  come  back.     Is  there  nothing  in  your  heart  for  me? 

Eloise.  Was  there  anything  in  your  heart  for  the  beggar 
who  stood  at  your  door  in  the  old  days? 

Louis.  Is  there  nothing  for  him  who  stands  at  yours  now, 
begging  for  a  word? 

Eloise  [frowning].  I  remember  you  had  the  name  of  a 
disciplinarian  in  your  regiment.  [She  rises  to  face  him.]  Did 
you  ever  find  anything  in  your  heart  for  the  soldiers  you  ordered 
tied  up  and  flogged  ?  Was  there  anything  in  your  heart  for  the 
peasants  who  starved  in  your  fields? 

Louis  [quietly].     No;  it  was  too  full  of  you. 

Eloise.    Words!     Pretty  little  words! 

Louis.  Thoughts.  Pretty,  because  they  are  of  you.  All,  al- 
ways of  you — always,  my  dear.  I  never  really  think  of  any- 
thing but  you.  The  picture  of  you  is  always  before  the  eyes 
of   my  soul;   the  very   name   of  you   is   forever  in   my  heart. 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  17 

[With  a  rueful  smile.]  And  it  is  on  the  tips  of  my  fingers, 
sometinaes  when  it  shouldn't  be.  See.  [He  steps  to  the  desk 
and  shows  her  a  scribbled  sheet.]  This  is  what  I  laughed  at 
a  while  ago.  I  tried  to  write,  with  you  near  me,  and  uncon- 
sciously I  let  your  name  creep  into  my  very  forgery!  I  wrote 
it  as  I  wrote  it  in  the  sand  when  we  were  children;  as  I  have 
traced  it  a  thousand  times  on  coated  mirrors — on  frosted  win- 
dows. [He  reads  the  writing  aloud.]  "  Permit  the  Citizen 
Balsage  and  his  sister,  the  Citizeness  Virginie  Balsage,  and 
his  second  sister,  the  Citizeness  Marie  Balsage,  and  Eloise 
d'Anville  " — so  I  wrote! — "to  embark  upon  the  vessel  Jeune 
Pierrette — "  You  see?  [He  lets  the  paper  jail  upon  the 
desk.]  Even  in  this  danger,  that  I  feel  closer  and  closer  with 
every  passing  second,  your  name  came  in  of  itself.  I  am  like 
that  English  Mary:  if  they  will  open  my  heart  when  I  am 
dead,  they  shall  find,  not  "Calais,"  but  "Eloise"! 

Eloise  [going  to  the  dressing-table].  Louis,  that  doesn't 
interest  me.  [She  adds  a  delicate  touch  or  two  to  her  hair, 
studying  it  thoughtfully  in  the  dressing-table  mirror.] 

Louis  [somberly].     I  told  you  long  ago — 

Eloise   [smiling  at  her  reflection].     So  you  did — often! 

Louis  [breathing  quickly].  I  have  nothing  new  to  offer. 
I  understand.     I  bore  you. 

Eloise.  Louis,  to  be  frank:  I  don't  care  what  they  find 
in  your  heart  when  they  open  it. 

Louis  [with  a  hint  of  sternness].  Have  you  never  reflected 
that  there  might  be  something  for  me  to  forgive  you? 

Eloise  [glancing  at  him  over  her  shoulder  in  frowning  sur- 
prise].    What! 

Louis.  I  wonder  sometimes  if  you  have  ever  found  a  flaw 
in  your  own  character. 

Eloise  [astounded].  So!  [Turning  sharply  upon  him.] 
You  are  assuming  the  right  to  criticize  me,  are  you?     Oho! 

Louis  [agitated].  I  state  merelj' — I  have  said — I  think  I 
forgive  you  a  great  deal — 

Eloise  [beginning  to  char].  You  do!  You  bestow  your 
gracious  pardon  upon  me,  do  you?  [Bursting  into  flame.] 
Keep  your  forgiveness  to  yourself!  When  I  want  it  I'll  kneel 
at  your  feet  and  beg  it  of  you !  You  can  kiss  me  then,  for  then 
you  will  know  that  "the  old  love  has  come  back"! 

Louis  [miserably].    When  you  kneel — 


i8  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Eloise.  Can  you  picture  it — Marquis?  [She  hurls  his  title 
at  him,  and  draws  herself  up  in  icy  splendor. \  I  am  a  woman 
of  the  Republic! 

Louis.    And  the  Republic  has  no  need  of  love. 

Eloise.     Its  daughter  has  no  need  of  yours! 

Louis.  Until  you  kneel  to  me.  You  have  spoken.  It  is 
ended.  [Turning  from  her  with  a  pathetic  gesture  of  fare- 
well and  resignation,  his  attention  is  suddenly  arrested  by  some- 
thing invisible.  He  stands  for  a  moment  transfixed.  When 
he  speaks,  it  is  in  an  altered  tone,  light  and  at  the  same  time 
ominous.]  My  cousin,  suffer  the  final  petition  of  a  bore.  For- 
give my  seriousness;  forgive  my  stupidity,  for  I  believe  that 
what  one  hears  now  means  that  a  number  of  things  are  indeed 
ended.     Myself  among  them. 

Eloise    [not  comprehending].     "What  one  hears?" 

Louis  [slowly].  In  the  distance.  [Both  stand  motionless 
to  listen,  and  the  room  is  silent.  Gradually  a  muffled,  multi- 
tudinous sound,  at  first  very  faint,  becomes  audible.] 

Eloise.     What  is  it? 

Louis  [with  pale  composure].  Only  a  song!  [The  distant 
sound  becomes  distinguishable  as  a  singing  from  many  un- 
musical throats  and  pitched  in  every  key,  a  drum-beat  booming 
underneath;  a  tumultuous  rumble  which  grows  slowly  louder. 
The  door  of  the  inner  room  opens,  and  Madame  de  Laseyne 
enters.] 

Anne  [briskly,  as  she  comes  in].  I  have  hidden  the  cloak 
and  the  dress  beneath  the  mattress.     Have  you — 

Louis  [lifting  his  hand].  Listen!  [She  halts,  startled.  The 
singing,  the  drums,  and  the  tumult  swell  suddenly  much  louder, 
as  if  the  noise-makers  had  turned  a  corner.] 

Anne   [crying  out].     The  "Marseillaise"! 

Louis.    The  "  Vultures'  Chorus  " ! 

Eloise  [in  a  ringing  voice].    The  Hymn  of  Liberty! 

Anne   [trembling  violently].     It  grows  louder. 

Louis.     Nearer! 

Eloise  [running  to  the  window].  They  are  coming  this 
way! 

Anne  [rushing  ahead  of  her].  They  have  turned  the  corner 
of  the  street.     Keep  back,  Louis! 

Eloise  [leaning  out  of  the  window,  enthusiastically].  Vive 
la —      [She   finishes   with   an    indignant  gurgle    as   Anne   de 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  19 

Laseyne,   without   comment,   claps  a  prompt   hand   over  her 
mouth  and  pushes  her  vigorously  from  the  window.] 

Anne.  A  mob — carrying  torches  and  dancing.  [Her  voice 
shaking  wildly.]     They  are  following  a  troop  of  soldiers. 

Louis.     The  National  Guard. 

Anne.  Keep  back  from  the  window!  A  man  in  a  tricolor 
scarf  marching  in  front. 

Louis.     A  political,  then — an  official  of  their  government. 

Anne.  O  Virgin,  have  mercy!  [She  turns  a  stricken  face 
upon  her  brother.]      It  is  that — 

Louis  [biting  his  nails].  Of  course.  Our  spy.  [He  takes 
a  hesitating  step  toward  the  desk;  but  swings  about,  goes  to  the 
door  at  the  rear,  shoots  the  bolt  back  and  forth,  apparently 
unable  to  decide  upon  a  course  of  action;  finally  leaves  the  door 
bolted  and  examines  the  hinges.  Anne,  meanwhile,  has  hur- 
ried to  the  desk,  and,  seizing  a  candle  there,  begins  to  light 
others  in  a  candelabrum  on  the  dressing-table.  The  noise  out- 
side grows  to  an  uproar;  the  "  Marseillaise "  changes  to 
"  Qa  ira  " ;  and  a  shaft  of  the  glare  from  the  torches  below 
shoots  through  the  window  and  becomes  a  staggering  red  patch 
on  the  ceiling.] 

Anne  [feverishly].  Lights!  Light  those  candles  in  the 
sconce,  Eloise!  Light  all  the  candles  we  have.  [Eloise,  re- 
sentful, does  not  move.] 

Louis.     No,  no!     Put  them  out! 

Anne.  Oh,  fatal!  [She  stops  him  as  he  rushes  to  obey  his 
own  command.]  If  our  window  is  lighted  he  will  believe  we 
have  no  thought  of  leaving,  and  pass  by.  [She  hastily  lights- 
the  candles  in  a  sconce  upon  the  wall  as  she  speaks;  the  shabby^ 
place  is  now  brightly  illuminated.] 

Louis.  He  will  not  pass  by.  [The  external  tumult  cul- 
minates in  riotous  yelling,  as,  with  a  final  roll,  the  drums  cease 
to  beat.     Madame  de  Laseyne  runs  again  to  the  ivindow.] 

Eloise  [sullenly].  You  are  disturbing  yourselves  without 
reason.     They  will  not  stop  here. 

Anne   [in  a  sickly  whisper].     They  have  stopped. 

Louis.  At  the  door  of  this  house?  [Madame  de  Laseyne, 
leaning  against  the  wall,  is  unable  to  reply,  save  by  a  gesture. 
The  noise  from  the  street  divindles  to  a  confused,  expectant 
murmur.  Louis  takes  a  pistol  from  beneath  his  blouse,  strides 
to  the  door,  and  listens.] 


20  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Anne  [faintly].  He  is  in  the  house.  The  soldiers  followed 
him. 

Louis.  They  are  on  the  lower  stairs.  [He  turns  to  the  two 
women  humbly.]  My  sister  and  my  cousin,  my  poor  plans 
have  only  made  everything  worse  for  you.  I  cannot  ask  you 
to  forgive  me.     We  are  caught. 

Anne  [vitalized  with  the  energy  of  desperation].  Not  till 
the  very  last  shred  of  hope  is  gone.  [<S//^  springs  to  the  desk 
and  begins  to  tear  the  discarded  sheets  into  minute  fragments.] 
Is  that  door  fastened? 

Louis.    They'll  break  it  down,  of  course. 

Anne.     Where  is  our  passport  from  Paris? 

Louis.     Here.     [He  gives  it  to  her.] 

Anne.     Quick!     Which  of  these  "permits"  is  the  best? 

Louis.  They're  all  hopeless —  [He  fumbles  among  the 
sheets  on  the  desk.] 

Anne.  Any  of  them.  We  can't  stop  to  select.  [She  thrusts 
the  passport  and  a  haphazard  sheet  from  the  desk  into  the 
bosom  of  her  dress.  An  orderly  tramping  of  heavy  shoes  and 
a  clinking  of  metal  become  audible  as  the  soldiers  ascend  the 
upper  flight  of  stairs.] 

Eloise.  All  this  is  childish.  [Haughtily.]  I  shall  merely 
announce — 

Anne  [uttering  a  half-choked  scream  of  rage].  You'll  an- 
nounce nothing!     Out  of  here,  both  of  you! 

Louis.    No,  no! 

Anne  [with  breathless  rapidity,  as  the  noise  on  the  stairs 
grows  louder].  Let  them  break  the  door  in  if  they  will;  only 
let  them  find  me  alone.  [She  seizes  her  brother's  arm  implor- 
ingly as  he  pauses,  uncertain.]  Give  me  the  chance  to  make 
them  think  I  am  here  alone. 

Louis.     I  can't — 

Anne  [urging  him  to  the  inner  door].  Is  there  any  other 
possible  hope  for  us?  Is  there  any  other  possible  way  to  gain 
even  a  little  time?  Louis,  I  want  your  word  of  honor  not  to 
leave  that  room  unless  I  summon  you.  I  must  have  it!  [Over- 
borne by  her  intensity,  Louis  nods  despairingly,  allowing  her 
to  force  him  toward  the  other  room.  The  tramping  of  the 
soldiers,  much  louder  and  very  close,  comes  to  a  sudden  stop. 
There  is  a  sharp  word  of  command,  and  a  dozen  muskets  ring 
on  the  floor  just  beyond  the  outer  door.] 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  ai 

Eloise  [folding  her  arms^.  You  needn't  think  I  shall  con- 
sent to  hide  myself.     I  shall  tell  them — 

Anne  [in  a  surcharged  whisper].  You  will  not  ruin  us! 
[With  furious  determination,  as  a  loud  knock  falls  upon  the 
door.]  In  there,  I  tell  you!  [Almost  physically  she  sweeps 
both  Eloise  and  Louis  out  of  the  room,  closes  the  door  upon 
them,  and  leans  against  it,  panting.  The  knocking  is  repeated. 
She  braces  herself  to  speak.] 

Anne   [with  a  catch  in  her  throat].     Who  is — there? 

A  Sonorous  Voice.    French  Republic! 

Anne  [faltering].  It  is — it  is  difficult  to  hear.  What  do 
you — 

The  Voice.    Open  the  door. 

Anne  [more  firmly].    That  is  impossible. 

The  Voice,     Open  the  door. 

Anne.    What  is  your  name? 

The  Voice.    Valsin,  National  Agent. 

Anne.     I  do  not  know  you. 

The  Voice.    Open! 

Anne.   I  am  here  alone.   I  am  dressing.   I  can  admit  no  one. 

The  Voice.     For  the  last  time:  open! 

Anne.    No! 

The  Voice.  Break  it  down.  [A  thunder  of  blows  from 
the  butts  of  muskets  falls  upon  the  door.] 

Anne  [rushing  toward  it  in  a  passion  of  protest].  No,  no, 
no !  You  shall  not  come  in !  I  tell  you  I  have  not  finished 
dressing.  If  you  are  men  of  honor —  Ah!  [She  recoils,  gasp- 
ing, as  a  panel  breaks  in,  the  stock  of  a  musket  following  it; 
and  then,  weakened  at  rusty  bolt  and  crazy  hinge,  the  whole 
door  gives  way  and  falls  crashing  into  the  room.  The  narrow 
passage  thus  revealed  is  crowded  with  shabbily  uniformed  sol- 
diers of  the  National  Guard,  under  an  officer  armed  with  a 
saber.  As  the  door  falls  a  man  wearing  a  tricolor  scarf 
strides  by  them,  and,  standing  beneath  the  dismantled  lintel, 
his   hands  behind  him,  sweeps   the  room   with  a  smiling  eye. 

This  personage  is  handsomely,  almost  dandiacally  dressed  in 
black;  his  ruffle  is  of  lace,  his  stockings  are  of  silk;  the  lapels 
of  his  waistcoat,  overlapping  those  of  his  long  coat,  exhibit  a 
rich  embroidery  of  white  and  crimson.  These  and  other  details 
of  elegance,  such  as  his  wearing  powder  upon  his  dark  hair, 
indicate    either    insane    daring    or   an    importance    quite    over- 


22  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

whelming.  A  certain  easy  power  in  his  unusually  brilliant  eyes 
favors  the  probability  that,  like  Robespierre,  he  can  wear  what 
he  pleases.  Undeniably  he  has  distinction.  Equally  undeniable 
is  something  in  his  air  that  is  dapper  and  impish  and  lurking. 
His  first  glance  over  the  room  apparently  affording  him  acute 
satisfaction,  he  steps  lightly  across  the  prostrate  door,  Madame 
DE  Laseyne  retreating  before  him  but  keeping  herself  between 
him  and  the  inner  door.  He  comes  to  an  unexpected  halt  in  a 
dancing-master's  posture,  removing  his  huge  hat — zvhich  dis- 
plays a  tricolor  plume  of  ostrich  feathers — with  a  wide  flourish, 
an  intentional  burlesque  of  the  old-court  manner. 

Valsin.  Permit  me.  \He  bows  elaborately.^  Be  gracious 
to  a  recent  fellow-traveler.  I  introduce  myself.  At  your 
service:  Valsin,  Agent  of  the  National  Committee  of  Public 
Safety.  \He  faces  about  sharply. \  Soldiers!  [They  stand  at 
attention.]  To  the  street  door.  I  will  conduct  the  examina- 
tion alone.  My  assistant  will  wait  on  this  floor,  at  the  top  of 
the  stair.  Send  the  people  away  down  below  there,  officer. 
Look  to  the  courtyard.  Clear  the  streets.  {The  officer  salutes, 
gives  a  word  of  command,  and  the  soldiers  shoulder  their  mus- 
kets, march  off,  and  are  heard  clanking  down  the  stairs. 
Valsin  tosses  his  hat  upon  the  desk,  and  turns  smilingly  to 
the  trembling  but  determined  Madame  de  Laseyne.] 

Anne  [summoning  her  indignation].  How  dare  you  break 
down  my  door!     How  dare  you  force  your — 

Valsin  [suavely].  My  compliments  on  the  celerity  with 
which  the  citizeness  has  completed  her  toilet.  Marvelous.  An 
example  to  her  sex. 

Anne.    You  intend  robbery,  I  suppose. 

Valsin  [with  a  curt  laugh].    Not  precisely. 

AiNNE.    What,  then? 

Valsin.  I  have  come  principally  for  the  returned  Emigrant, 
Louis  Valny-Cherault,  formerly  called  Marquis  de  Valny- 
Cherault,  formerly  of  the  former  regiment  of  Valny;  also  for- 
merly— 

Anne  [cutting  him  off  sharply].  I  do  not  know  what  you 
mean  by  all  these  names — and  "  formerlies  "  1 

Valsin.  No?  [Persuasively.]  Citizeness,  pray  assert  that 
I  did  not  encounter  you  last  week  on  your  journey  from 
Paris — 

Anne  [hastily].    It  is  true  I  have  been  to  Paris  on  business; 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  23 

you  may  have  seen  me — I  do  not  know.    Is  ft  a  crime  to  return 
from  Paris? 

Valsin  [in  a  tone  of  mock  encouragement].  It  will  amuse 
me  to  hear  you  declare  that  I  did  not  see  you  traveling  in  com- 
pany with  Louis  Valny-Cherault.     Come!     Say  it. 

Anne  [stepping  back  defensively,  closer  to  the  inner  door]. 
I  am  alone,  I  tell  you!  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean.  If 
you  saw  me  speaking  with  people  in  the  diligence,  or  at  some 
posting-house,  they  were  only  traveling  acquaintances.  I  did 
not  know  them.     I  am  a  widow — 

Valsin.    My  condolences.     Poor,  of  course? 
Anne.    Yes. 

Valsin.     And  lonely,  of  course?     [Apologetically.]     Lone- 
liness is  in  the  formula:  I  suggest  it  for  fear  you  might  forget. 
Anne  [doggedly].    I  am  alone. 
Valsin.    Quite  right. 
■  Anne  [confusedly].     I  am  a  widow,  I  tell  you — a  widow, 
living  here  quietly  with — 

Valsin    [taking  her  up  quickly].     Ah — "with"!     Living 
here  alone,  and  also  "  with  " — whom?   Not  your  late  husband? 
Anne  [desperately].    With  my  niece. 

Valsin  [affecting  great  surprise].    Ah!    A  niece!    And  the 
niece,  I  take  it,  is  in  your  other  room  yonder? 
Anne  [huskily].    Yes. 

Valsin    [taking  a  step  forward].     Is  she  pretty?     [Anne 
places  her  back  against  the  closed  door,  facing  him  grimly.     He 
assumes  a  tone  of  indulgence.]       Ah,  one  must  not  look:  the 
niece,  likewise,  has  not  completed  her  toilet. 
Anne.     She  is — asleep. 

Valsin  [glancing  toward  the  dismantled  doorway].  A 
sound  napper!  Why  did  you  not  say  instead  that  she  was — 
shaving?     [He  advances,  smiling.] 

Anne  [between  her  teeth].  You  shall  not  go  in!  You  can- 
not see  her!     She  is — 

Valsin  [laughing].  Allow  me  to  prompt  you.  She  is  not 
only  asleep;  she  is  ill.  She  is  starving.  Also,  I  cannot  go  in 
because  she  is  an  orphan.  Surely,  she  is  an  orphan?  A  lonely 
widow  and  her  lonely  orphan  niece.  Ah,  touching — and 
sweet ! 

Anne  [hotly].  What  authority  have  you  to  force  your  way 
into  my  apartment  and  insult — 


24  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Valsin  [touching  his  scarf],  I  had  the  honor  to  mention 
the  French  Republic. 

Anne.  So!  Does  the  French  Republic  persecute  widows 
and  orphans? 

Valsin  [gravely].     No.     It  is  the  making  of  them! 

Anne  [crying  out].    Ah,  horrible! 

Valsin.  I  regret  that  its  just  severity  was  the  cause  of  your 
own  bereavement,  Citizeness.  When  your  unfortunate  hus- 
band, Andre,  formerly  known  as  the  Prince  de  Laseyne — 

Anne  [defiantly,  though  tears  have  sprung  to  her  eyes],  I 
tell  you  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  these  titles.  My 
name  is  Balsage. 

Valsin.  Bravo!  The  Widow  Balsage,  living  here  in  calm 
obscurity  with  her  niece.  Widow  Balsage,  answer  quickly, 
without  stopping  to  think.  [Sharply.]  How  long  have  you 
lived  here? 

Anne.    Two  months.     [Faltering.] — A  year! 

Valsin  [laughing].  Good.  Two  months  and  a  year!  No 
visitors?    No  strangers? 

Anne.  No. 

Valsin  [wheeling  quickly  and  picking  up  Louis's  cap 
from  the  dressing-table].  This  cap,  then,  belongs  to  your 
niece. 

Anne  [flustered,  advancing  toward  him  as  if  to  take  it].  It 
was — it  was  left  here  this  afternoon  by  our  landlord. 

Valsin  [musingly].  That  is  very,  very  puzzling.  [He 
leans  against  the  dressing-table  in  a  careless  attitude,  his  back 
to  her,] 

Anne  [cavalierly].    Why  "  puzzling  "? 

Valsin.  Because  I  sent  him  on  an  errand  to  Paris  this 
morning.  [She  flinches,  but  he  does  not  turn  to  look  at  her, 
continuing  in  a  tone  of  idle  curiosity.]  I  suppose  your  own 
excursion  to  Paris  was  quite  an  event  for  you.  Widow  Balsage. 
You  do  not  take  many  journeys? 

Anne.    I  am  too  poor. 

Valsin.  And  you  have  not  been  contemplating  another  de- 
parture from  Boulogne? 

Anne.   No. 

Valsin  [still  in  the  same  careless  attitude,  his  back  toward 
her  and  the  closed  door].  Good.  It  is  as  I  thought:  the  port- 
manteau is  for  ornament. 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  25 

Anne  [choking].  It  belongs  to  my  niece.  She  came  only 
an  hour  ago.    She  has  not  unpacked. 

Valsin.     Naturally.     Too  ill. 

Anne.  She  had  traveled  all  night;  she  was  exhausted.  She 
went  to  sleep  at  once. 

Valsin.    Is  she  a  somnambulist? 

Anne  [taken  aback].    Why? 

Valsin  [indifferently].  She  has  just  opened  the  door  of  her 
room  in  order  to  overhear  our  conversation.  [Wavitig  his  hand 
to  the  dressing-table  mirror,  in  which  he  had  been  gazing.] 
Observe  it,  Citizeness  Laseyne. 

Anne  [demoralized].  1  do  not — I —  [Stamping  her  foot.] 
How  often  shall  I  tell  you  my  name  is  Balsage ! 

Valsin  [turning  to  her  apologetically].  My  wretched 
memory.  Perhaps  I  might  remember  better  if  I  saw  it  written: 
I  beg  a  glance  at  your  papers.  Doubtless  you  have  your  cer- 
tificate of  citizenship — 

Anne  [trembling].    I  have  papers,  certainly. 

Valsin.    The  sight  of  them — 

Anne.  I  have  my  passport;  you  shall  see.  [With  wildly 
shaking  hands  she  takes  from  her  blouse  the  passport  and  the 
"permit"  crumpled  together.]  It  is  in  proper  form —  [She 
is  nervously  replacing  the  tiuo  papers  in  her  bosom  when  with  a 
sudden  movement  he  takes  them,  from  her.  She  cries  out  inco- 
herently, and  attempts  to  recapture  them.] 

Valsin  [extending  his  left  arm  to  fend  her  off].  Yes, 
here  you  have  your  passport.  And  there  you  have  others. 
[He  points  to  the  littered  floor  under  the  desk.]  Many  of 
them! 

Anne.  Old  letters!  [She  clutches  at  the  papers  in  his 
grasp.] 

Valsin  [easily  fending  her  off].  Doubtless!  [He  shakes  the 
"  permit"  open.]  Oho!  A  permission  to  embark — and  signed 
by  three  names  of  the  highest  celebrity.  Alas,  these  unfortunate 
statesmen,  Billaud  Varennes,  Carnot,  and  Robespierre!  Each 
has  lately  suffered  an  injury  to  his  right  hand.  What  a  mis- 
fortune for  France!  And  what  a  coincidence!  One  has  not 
heard  the  like  since  we  closed  the  theatres. 

Anne  [furiously  struggling  to  reach  his  hand].  Give  me 
my  papers!     Give  me — 

Valsin  [holding  them  away  from  her].    You  see,  these  un- 


26  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

lucky  great  men  had  their  names  signed  for  them  by  some- 
body else.  And  I  should  judge  that  this  somebody  else 
must  have  been  writing  quite  recently — less  than  half  an 
hour  ago,  from  the  freshness  of  the  ink — and  in  considerable 
haste;  perhaps  suifering  considerable  anguish  of  mind,  Widow 
Balsage!  [Madame  de  Laseyne,  overwhehried,  sinks  into 
a  chair.  He  comes  close  to  her,  his  manner  changing  star- 
tling I  y.] 

Valsin  [bending  over  zvith  sudden  menace,  his  voice  loud 
and  harsh].  Widow  Balsage,  if  you  intend  no  journey,  why 
have  you  this  forged  permission  to  embark  on  the  Jeune 
Pierrette?    Widow  Balsage,  who  is  the  Citizen  Balsage? 

Anne  [faintly].     My  brother. 

Valsin  [straightening  up].  Your  first  truth.  [Resuming 
his  gaiety.]  Of  course  he  is  not  in  that  room  yonder  with  your 
niece. 

Anne  [brokenly].     No,  no,  no;  he  is  not!     He  is  not  here. 

Valsin  [commiseratingly].  Poor  woman!  You  have  not 
even  the  pleasure  to  perceive  how  droll  you  are. 

Anne.  I  perceive  that  I  am  a  fool!  [She  dashes  the  tears 
from  her  eyes  and  springs  to  her  feet.]  I  also  perceive  that  you 
have  denounced  us  before  the  authorities  here — 

Valsin.  Pardon.  In  Boulogne  it  happens  that  /  am  the 
authority.  I  introduce  myself  for  the  third  time:  Valsin,  Com- 
missioner of  the  National  Committee  of  Public  Safety.  Tallien 
was  sent  to  Bordeaux ;  Collot  to  Lj^ons ;  I  to  Boulogne.  Citi- 
zeness,  were  all  of  the  august  names  on  your  permit  genuine, 
you  could  no  more  leave  this  port  without  my  counter-signature 
than  you  could  take  wing  and  fly  over  the  Channel! 

Anne  [luith  a  shrill  laugh  of  triumph].  You  have  over- 
reached yourself!  You're  an  ordinary  spy:  you  followed  us 
from  Paris — 

Valsin  [gaily].    Oh,  I  intended  you  to  notice  that! 

Anne  [unheeding].  You  have  claimed  to  be  Commissioner 
of  the  highest  power  in  France.  We  can  prove  that  you  are  a 
common  spy.  You  may  go  to  the  guillotine  for  that.  Take 
care.  Citizen  !  So !  You  have  denounced  us ;  we  denounce  you. 
I'll  have  you  arrested  by  your  own  soldiers.  I'll  call  them — 
[She  makes  a  feint  of  running  to  the  window.  He  watches  her 
coolly,  in  silence;  and  she  halts,  chagrined.] 

Valsin  [pleasantly].    I  was  sure  you  would  not  force  me  to 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  27 

be  premature.  Remark  it,  Citizeness  Laseyne:  I  am  enjoying 
all  this.    I  have  waited  a  long  time  for  it. 

Anne  [becoming  hysterical].  I  am  the  Widow  Balsage,  I 
tell  you!  You  do  not  know  us — you  followed  us  from  Paris. 
[Half  sobbing.]  You're  a  spy — a  hanger-on  of  the  police.  We 
will  prove — 

Valsin  [stepping  to  the  dismantled  doorway].  I  left  my 
assistant  within  hearing — a  species  of  animal  of  mine.  I  may 
claim  that  he  belongs  to  me.  A  worthy  patriot,  but  skillful, 
who  has  had  the  honor  of  a  slight  acquaintance  with  you,  I  be- 
lieve. [Calling.]  Dossonville !  [Dossonville,  a  large  man, 
flabby  of  flesh,  loose-mouthed,  grizzled,  carelessly  dressed, 
makes  his  appearance  in  the  doorway.  He  has  a  harsh  and 
reckless  eye ;  and,  obviously  a  flamboyant  bully  by  temperament, 
his  abject,  doggish  deference  to  Valsin  is  instantly  impressive, 
more  than  confirming  the  latter's  remark  that  Dossonville 
"  belongs  "  to  him.  Dossonville,  apparently,  is  a  chattel  in- 
deed, body  and  soul.  At  sight  of  him  Madame  de  Laseyne 
catches  at  the  desk  for  support  and  stands  speechless.], 

Valsin  [easily],  Dossonville,  you  may  inform  the  Citizeness 
Laseyne  what  office  I  have  the  fortune  to  hold. 

Dossonville  [coming  in].  Bright  heaven!  All  the  world 
knows  that  you  are  the  representative  of  the  Committee  of  Pub- 
lic Safety.     Commissioner  to  Boulogne. 

Valsin.    With  what  authority? 

Dossonville.  Absolute — unlimited!  Naturally.  What  else 
would  be  useful? 

Valsin.    You  recall  this  woman,  Dossonville? 

Dossonville.  She  was  present  when  I  delivered  the  pass- 
port to  the  Emigrant  Valny-Cherault,  in  Paris. 

Valsin.    Did  you  forge  that  passport? 

Dossonville.  No.  I  told  the  Emigrant  I  had.  Under 
orders.     [Grinning.]     It  was  genuine. 

Valsin.    Where  did  you  get  it? 

Dossonville.    From  you. 

Valsin  [suavely].  Sit  down,  Dossonville.  [The  latter,  who 
is  standing  by  a  chair,  obeys  with  a  promptness  more  than  mili- 
tary. Valsin  turns  smilingly  to  Madame  de  Laseyne.]  Dos- 
sonville's  instructions,  however,  did  not  include  a  "  permit  "  to 
sail  on  the  Jeune  Pierrette.  All  of  which,  I  confess,  Citizeness, 
has  very  much  the  appearance  of  a  trap!     [He  tosses  the  two 


28  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

papers  upon  the  desk.  Utterly  dismayed,  she  makes  no  effort 
to  secure  them.     He  regards  her  with  quizzical  enjoyment.] 

Anne.     Ah — you —     [She  fails  to  speak  coherently.] 

Valsin.  Dossonville  has  done  very  well.  He  procured  your 
passport,  brought  your  "  disguises,"  planned  your  journey,  even 
gave  you  directions  how  to  find  these  lodgings  in  Boulogne.  In- 
deed, I  instructed  him  to  omit  nothing  for  your  comfort.  [He 
pauses  for  a  moment.]  If  I  am  a  spy,  Citizeness  Laseyne,  at 
least  I  trust  your  gracious  intelligence  may  not  cling  to  the 
epithet  "  ordinary."  My  soul !  but  I  appear  to  myself  a  most 
uncommon  type  of  spy — a  very  intricate,  complete,  and  unusual 
spy,  in  fact. 

Anne  [to  herself,  wee  ping].    Ah,  poor  Louis! 

Valsin  [cheerfully].  You  are  beginning  to  comprehend? 
That  is  well.  Your  niece's  door  is  still  ajar  by  the  discreet 
width  of  a  finger,  so  I  assume  that  the  Emigrant  also  begins  to 
comprehend.  Therefore  I  take  my  ease!  [He  seats  himself  in 
the  most  comfortable  chair  in  the  room,  crossing  his  legs  in  a 
leisurely  attitude,  and  lightly  drumming  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
together,  the  while  his  peaceful  gaze  is  fixed  upon  the  ceiling. 
His  tone,  as  he  continues,  is  casual.]  You  understand,  my  Dos- 
sonville, having  long  ago  occupied  this  very  apartment  myself, 
I  am  serenely  aware  that  the  Emigrant  can  leave  the  other 
room  only  by  the  window;  and  as  this  is  the  fourth  floor,  and 
a  proper  number  of  bayonets  in  the  courtyard  below  are  ar- 
ranged to  receive  any  person  active  enough  to  descend  by  a  rope 
of  bed-clothes,  one  is  confident  that  the  said  Emigrant  will 
remain  where  he  is.  Let  us  make  ourselves  comfortable,  for 
it  is  a  delightful  hour — an  hour  I  have  long  promised  myself. 
I  am  in  a  good  humor.  Let  us  all  be  happy.  Citizeness 
Laseyne,  enjoy  yourself.    Call  me  some  bad  names! 

Anne  [between  her  teeth].    If  I  could  find  one  evil  enough! 

Valsin  [slapping  his  knee  delightedly].  There  it  is:  the 
complete  incompetence  of  your  class.  You  poor  aristocrats,  you 
do  not  even  know  how  to  swear.  Your  ancestors  knew  how! 
They  were  fighters ;  they  knew  how  to  swear  because  they  knew 
how  to  attack ;  you  poor  moderns  have  no  profanity  left  in  you, 
because,  poisoned  by  idleness,  you  have  forgotten  even  how  to 
resist.  And  yet  you  thought  yourselves  on  top,  and  so  you  were 
— but  as  foam  is  on  top  of  the  wave.  You  forgot  that  power, 
like  genius,  always  comes  from  underneath,  because  it  is  pro- 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  29 

duced  only  by  turmoil.  We  have  had  to  wring  the  neck  of 
your  feather-head  court,  because  while  the  court  was  the  nation 
the  nation  had  its  pockets  picked.  You  were  at  the  mercy  of 
anybody  with  a  pinch  of  brains:  adventurers  like  Mazarin,  like 
Fouquet,  like  Law,  or  that  little  commoner,  the  woman  Fish, 
who  called  herself  Pompadour  and  took  France — France, 
merely! — from  your  King,  and  used  it  to  her  own  pleasure. 
Then,  at  last,  after  the  swindlers  had  well  plucked  you — at 
last,  unfortunate  creatures,  the  People  got  you!  Citizeness,  the 
People  had  starved:  be  assured  they  will  eat  you  to  the  bone — 
and  then  eat  the  bone!  You  are  helpless  because  you  have 
learned  nothing  and  forgotten  everj^thing.  You  have  forgotten 
everything  in  this  world  except  how  to  be  fat! 

DossONViLLE  [applauding  with  unction].  Beautiful!  It  is 
beautiful,  all  that!    A  beautiful  speech! 

Valsin.    Ass! 

DossoNViLLE  [meekly].    Perfectly,  perfectly. 

Valsin  [crossly].  That  wasn't  a  speech;  it  was  the  truth. 
Citizeness  Laseyne,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  I  am  the  Peo- 
ple. [He  extends  his  hand  negligently,  with  open  palm.]  And 
I  have  got  you,  [He  clenches  his  fingers,  like  a  cook's  on  the 
neck  of  a  fowl.]  Like  that!  And  I'm  going  to  take  you  back 
to  Paris,  you  and  the  Emigrant.  [She  stands  in  an  attitude 
eloquent  of  despair.  His  glance  roves  from  her  to  the  door  of 
the  other  room,  which  is  still  slightly  ajar;  and,  smiling  at  some 
fugitive  thought,  he  continues,  deliberately.]  I  take  you:  you 
and  your  brother — and  that  rather  pretty  little  person  who 
traveled  with  you.  [There  is  a  breathless  exclamation  from 
the  other  side  of  the  door,  ivhich  is  flung  open  violently,  as 
Eloise — flushed,  radiant  with  anger,  and  altogether  magnifi- 
cent— siueeps  into  the  room  to  confront  Valsin.] 

Eloise  [slamming  the  door  behind  her].  Leave  this  Jack- 
in-Office  to  me,  Anne! 

DossoNViLLE  [dazed  by  the  vision].  Lord!  What  glory! 
[He  rises,  bowing  profoundly,  muttering  hoarsely.]  Oh,  eyes! 
Oh,  hair!    Look  at  her  shape!     Her  chin!    The  divine — 

Valsin  [getting  up  and  patting  him  reassuringly  on  the 
back].  The  lady  perceives  her  effect,  my  Dossonville.  It  is  no 
novelty.  Sit  down,  my  Dossonville.  [The  still  murmurous 
Dossonville  obeys.  Valsin  turns  to  Eloise,  a  brilliant  light 
in  his  eyes.]     Let  me  greet  one  of  the  nieces  of  Widow  Balsage 


30  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

— evidently  not  the  sleepy  one,  and  certainly  not  ill.  Health 
so  transcendent — 

Eloise  [placing  her  hand  upon  Madame  de  Laseyne's 
shoulder].  This  is  a  clown,  Anne.  You  need  have  no  fear  of 
him  whatever.     His  petty  authority  does  not  extend  to  us. 

Valsin  [deferentially].  Will  the  niece  of  Widow  Balsage 
explain  why  it  does  not? 

Eloise  [turning  upon  him  fiercely].  Because  the  patriot 
Citizeness  Eloise  d'Anville  is  here! 

Valsin  [assuming  an  air  of  thoughtfulness].  Yes,  she  is 
here.  That  "  permit  "  yonder  even  mentions  her  by  name.  It 
is  curious.     I  shall  have  to  go  into  that.     Continue,  niece. 

Eloise  [with  supreme  haughtiness].  This  lady  is  under  her 
protection. 

Valsin  [growing  red].    Pardon.     Under  whose  protection? 

Eloise  [sulphurously].  Under  the  protection  of  Eloise 
d'Anville!  [This  has  a  frightful  effect  upon  Valsin;  his  face 
becomes  contorted;  he  clutches  at  his  throat,  apparently  half 
strangled,  staggers,  and  falls  choking  into  the  easy-chair  he  has 
formerly  occupied.] 

Valsin  [gasping,  coughing,  incoherent].  Under  the  pro — 
the  protection —  [He  explodes  into  peal  after  peal  of  up- 
roarious laughter.]  The  protection  of —  Aha,  ha,  ha,  ho,  ho, 
ho!      [He  rocks  himself  back  and  forth  unappeasably.] 

Eloise  [with  a  slight  lift  of  the  eyebrows].  This  man  is 
an  idiot. 

Valsin  [during  an  abatement  of  his  attack].  Oh,  pardon! 
It  is — too — much — too  much  for  me!  You  saj' — these  people 
are — 

Eloise  [stamping  her  foot].  Under  the  protection  of  Eloise 
d'Anville,  imbecile!  You  cannot  touch  them.  She  wills  it! 
[At  this,  Valsin  shouts  as  if  pleading  for  mercy,  and  beats  the 
air  with  his  hands.  He  struggles  to  his  feet  and,  pounding  him- 
self upon  the  chest,  walks  to  and  fro  in  the  effort  to  control 
his  convulsion.] 

Eloise  [to  Anne,  under  cover  of  the  noise  he  makes].  I 
was  wrong:  he  is  not  an  idiot. 

AyiiiE  [despairingly].     He  laughs  at  you. 

Eloise  [in  a  quick  ivhisper].  Out  of  bluster;  because  he  is 
afraid.  He  is  badly  frightened.  I  know  just  what  to  do.  Go 
into  the  other  room  with  Louis. 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  31 

Anne  [protesting  weakly],    I  can't  hope — 

Eloise  [flashing  from  a  cloud].  You  failed,  didn't  you? 
[Madame  de  Laseyne,  after  a  tearful  perusal  of  the  stern  re- 
sourcefulness now  written  in  the  younger  woman's  eyes,  suc- 
cumbs with  a  piteous  gesture  of  assent  and  goes  out  forlornly. 
Eloise  closes  the  door  and  stands  with  her  back  to  it.] 

Valsin  [paying  no  attention  to  them].  Eloise  d'Anville! 
[Still  pacing  the  room  in  the  struggle  to  subdue  his  hilarity.] 
This  young  citizeness  speaks  of  the  protection  of  Eloise 
d'Anville!  [Leaning  feebly  upon  Dossonville's  shoulder.] 
Do  you  hear,  my  Dossonville?  It  is  an  ecstasy.  Ecstasize, 
then.     Scream,  Dossonville! 

Dossonville  [puzzled,  but  evidently  accustomed  to  being 
so,  cackles  instantly].  Perfectly.  Ha,  ha!  The  citizeness  is 
not  only  stirringly  beautiful,  she  is  also — 

Valsin.  She  is  also  a  wit.  Susceptible  henchman,  concen- 
trate your  thoughts  upon  domesticity.  In  this  presence  remem- 
ber your  wife ! 

Eloise  [peremptorily].  Dismiss  that  person.  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you. 

Valsin  [wiping  his  eyes].  Dossonville,  you  are  not  required. 
We  are  going  to  be  sentimental,  and  heaven  knows  you  are  not 
the  moor^.  In  fact,  you  are  a  fat  old  man.  Exit,  obesity !  Go 
somewhere  and  think  about  your  children.     Flit,  whale! 

Dossonville  [rising].  Perfectly,  my  chieftain.  [He  goes 
to  the  broken  door.] 

Eloise  [tapping  the  floor  with  her  shoe].    Out  of  hearing! 

Valsin.    The  floor  below. 

Dossonville.  Well  understood.  Perfectly,  perfectly!  [He 
goes  out  through  the  hallway;  disappears,  chuckling  grossly. 
There  are  some  mojnents  of  silence  within  the  room,  while  he 
is  heard  clumping  down  a  flight  of  stairs;  then  Valsin  turns 
to  Eloise  ivith  burlesque  ardor.] 

Valsin.    "Alone  at  last!  " 

Eloise  [maintaining  her  composure].     Rabbit! 

Valsin  [dropping  into  the  chair  at  the  desk,  with  mock  de- 
jection]. Repulsed  at  the  outset!  Ah,  Citizeness,  there  were 
moments  on  the  journey  from  Paris  when  I  thought  I 
detected  a  certain  kindness  in  your  glances  at  the  lonely 
stranger. 

Eloise  [folding  her  arms].    You  are  to  withdraw  your  sol- 


32         •        BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

diers,  countersign  the  "  permit,"  and  allow  my  friends  to  em- 
bark at  once, 

Valsin  [with  solemnity].  Do  you  give  it  as  an  order, 
Citizeness? 

Eloise.  I  do.  You  will  receive  suitable  political  advance- 
ment. 

Valsin  [in  a  choked  voice].    You  mean  as  a — a  reward? 

Eloise  [haughtily].  I  guarantee  that  you  shall  receive  it! 
[He  looks  at  her  strangely;  then,  with  a  low  moan,  presses  his 
hand  to  his  side,  seeming  upon  the  point  of  a  dangerous  seizure.] 

Valsin  [managing  to  speak].  I  can  only  beg  you  to  spare 
me.    You  have  me  at  your  mercy. 

Eloise  [swelling].  It  is  well  for  you  that  you  understand 
that! 

Valsin  [shaking  his  hand  ruefully].  Yes;  you  see  I  have  a 
bad  liver:  it  may  become  permanently  enlarged.  Laughter  is 
my  great  danger. 

Eloise  [crying  out  with  rage].     Oh! 

Valsin  [dolorously].  I  have  continually  to  remind  myself 
that  I  am  no  longer  in  the  first  flush  of  youth. 

Eloise.    Idiot!    Do  you  not  know  who  I  am! 

Valsin.  You?  Oh  yes —  [He  checks  himself  abruptly; 
looks  at  her  with  brief  intensity;  turns  his  eyes  away,  half 
closing  them  in  quick  meditation;  smiles,  as  upon  so?fie  secret 
pleasantry,  and  proceeds  briskly.]  Oh  yes,  yes,  I  know  who 
you  are. 

Eloise  [beginning  haughtily].    Then  you — 

Valsin  [at  once  cutting  her  off].  As  to  your  name,  I  do 
not  say.  Names  at  best  are  details;  and  your  own  is  a  detail 
that  could  hardly  be  thought  to  matter.  What  you  are  is 
obvious:  you  joined  Louis  and  his  sister  in  Paris  at  the  bar- 
riers, and  traveled  with  them  as  "  Marie  Balsage,"  a  sister. 
You  might  save  us  a  little  trouble  by  giving  us  your  real  name; 
you  will  probably  refuse,  and  the  police  will  have  to  look  it  up 
when  I  take  you  back  to  Paris.  Frankly,  you  are  of  no  impor- 
tance to  us,  though  of  course  we'll  send  you  to  the  Tribunal. 
No  doubt  you  are  a  poor  relative  of  the  Valny-Cheraults,  or, 
perhaps,  you  may  have  been  a  governess  in  the  Laseyne 
family,  or — 

Eloise  [under  her  breath].     Idiot!     Idiot! 

Valsin    [with  subterranean  enjoyment,  watching  her  side-\ 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  33 

long^.  Or  the  good-looking  wife  of  some  faithful  retainer  of 
the  Emigrant's,  perhaps. 

Eloise  [with  a  shrill  laugh].  Does  the  Committee  of  Pub- 
lic Safety  betray  the  same  intelligence  in  the  appointment  of  all 
its  agents?     [Violently.]     Imbecile,  I — 

Valsin  [quickly  raising  his  voice  to  check  her\.  You  are 
of  no  importance,  I  tell  you!  [Changing  his  tone.]  Of  course 
I  mean  politically.  [With  broad  gallantry.]  Otherwise,  I  am 
the  first  to  admit  extreme  susceptibility.  I  saw  that  you  ob- 
served it  on  the  way — at  the  taverns,  in  the  diligence,  at  the 
posting-houses,  at — 

Eloise  [ivith  serenity].    Yes.    I  am  accustomed  to  oglers. 

Valsin.  Alas,  I  believe  you!  My  unfortunate  sex  is  but 
too  responsive. 

Eloise  [gasping].    "Responsive" —    Oh! 

Valsin  [indulgently].  Let  us  return  to  the  safer  subject. 
Presently  I  shall  arrest  those  people  in  the  other  room  and, 
regretfully,  you  too.  But  first  I  pamper  myself;  I  chat;  I  have 
an  attractive  woman  to  listen.  In  the  matter  of  the  arrest,  I 
delay  my  fire ;  I  do  not  flash  in  the  pan,  but  I  lengthen  my  fuse. 
Why?  For  the  same  reason  that  when  I  was  a  little  boy  and 
had  something  good  to  eat,  I  always  first  paid  it  the  compli- 
ments of  an  epicure.  I  looked  at  it  a  long  while.  I  played 
with  it.  Then — I  devoured  it!  I  am  still  like  that.  And 
Louis  yonder  is  good  to  eat,  because  I  happen  not  to  love  him. 
However,  I  should  mention  that  I  doubt  if  he  could  recall 
either  myself  or  the  circumstance  which  annoyed  me ;  some  epi- 
sodes are  sometimes  so  little  to  certain  people  and  so  significant 
to  certain  other  people.  [He  smiles,  stretching  himself  luxuri- 
ously in  his  chair.]  Behold  me,  Citizeness!  I  am  explained. 
I  am  indulging  my  humor:  I  play  with  my  cake.  Let  us  see 
into  what  curious  little  figures  I  can  twist  it. 

Eloise.    Idiot! 

Valsin  [pleasantly].  I  have  lost  count,  but  I  think  that  is 
the  sixth  idiot  you  have  called  me.  Aha,  it  is  only  history, 
which  one  admires  for  repeating  itself.  Good !  Let  us  march. 
I  shall  play —  [He  picks  up  the  "  permit "  from  the  desk, 
studies  it  absently,  and  looks  whimsically  at  her  over  his 
shoulder,  continuing:]  I  shall  play  with — with  all  four  of 
you. 

Eloise  [impulsively].    Four? 


34  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Valsin.  I  am  not  easy  to  deceive;  there  are  four  of  you 
here. 

Eloise   [staring].     So? 

Valsin.  Louis  brought  you  and  his  sister  from  Paris:  a 
party  of  three.  This  "permit"  which  he  forged  is  for  four; 
the  original  three  and  the  woman  you  mentioned  a  while  ago, 
Eloise  d'Anville.  Hence  she  must  have  joined  you  here.  The 
deduction  is  plain:  there  are  three  people  in  that  room:  the 
Emigrant,  his  sister,  and  this  Eloise  d'Anville.  To  the  trained 
mind  such  reasoning  is  simple. 

Eloise  [elated].     Perfectly! 

Valsin  [with  an  air  of  cunning].  Nothing  escapes  me. 
You  see  that. 

Eloise.  At  first  glance!  I  make  you  my  most  profound 
compliments.    Sir,  you  are  an  eagle! 

Valsin  [smugly].  Thanks.  Now,  then,  pretty  governess, 
you  thought  this  d'Anville  might  be  able  to  help  you.  What 
put  that  in  your  head? 

Eloise  [ivith  severity].  Do  you  pretend  not  to  know  what 
she  is? 

Valsin.  A  heroine  I  have  had  the  misfortune  never  to  en- 
counter.    But  I  am  informed  of  her  character  and  history. 

Eloise  [sternly].  Then  you  understand  that  even  the  Agent 
of  the  National  Committee  risks  his  head  if  he  dares  touch 
people  she  chooses  to  protect. 

Valsin  [extending  his  hand  in  plaintive  appeal].  Be  gen- 
erous to  my  opacity.     How  could  she  protect  anybody? 

Eloise  [with  condescension].   She  has  earned  the  gratitude — 

Valsin.    Of  whom? 

Eloise  [superbly].    Of  the  Nation! 

Valsin  [breaking  out  again].  Ha,  ha,  ha!  [Clutching  at 
his  side.]  Pardon,  oh,  pardon,  liver  of  mine.  I  must  not  die; 
my  life  is  still  useful. 

Eloise  [persisting  stormily].  Of  the  People,  stupidity!  Of 
the  whole  People,  dolt!     Of  France,  blockhead! 

Valsin  [with  a  violent  effort,  conquering  his  hilarity]. 
There!  I  am  saved.  Let  us  be  solemn,  my  child;  it  is  better 
for  my  malady.  You  are  still  so  young  that  one  can  instruct 
you  that  individuals  are  rarely  grateful;  "the  People,"  never. 
What  you  call  "  the  People  "  means  folk  who  are  not  always 
sure   of   their   next  meal ;   therefore   their  great   political   and 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  35 

patriotic  question  is  the  cost  of  food.  Their  heroes  are  the 
champions  who  are  going  to  make  it  cheaper;  and  when  these 
champions  fail  them  or  cease  to  be  useful  to  them,  then  they 
either  forget  these  poor  champions — or  eat  them.  Let  us  hear 
what  your  Eloise  d'Anville  has  done  to  earn  the  reward  of 
being  forgotten  instead  of  eaten. 

Eloise  [her  lips  quivering].  She  surrendered  her  property 
voluntarily.     She  gave  up  all  she  owned  to  the  Nation. 

Valsin  [ffenially].  And  immediately  went  to  live  with  her 
relatives  in  great  luxury. 

Eloise  [choking].  The  Republic  will  protect  her.  She  gave 
her  whole  estate — 

Valsin.  And  the  order  for  its  confiscation  was  already 
written  when  she  did  it. 

Eloise  [passionately].    Ah — liar! 

Valsin  [smiling].  I  have  seen  the  order.  [She  leans  against 
the  umU,  breathing  heavily.  He  goes  on,  smoothly.]  Yes,  this 
martyr  "  gave  "  us  her  property ;  but  one  hears  that  she  went 
to  the  opera  just  the  same  and  wore  more  jewels  than  ever,  and 
lived  richly  upon  the  Laseynes  and  Valny-Cheraults,  until  they 
were  confiscated.  Why,  all  the  world  knows  about  this  woman ; 
and  let  me  tell  you,  to  your  credit,  my  governess,  I  think  you 
have  a  charitable  heart:  you  are  the  only  person  I  ever  heard 
speak  kindly  of  her. 

Eloise  [setting  her  teeth].    Venom! 

Valsin  [observing  her  slyly].  It  is  with  difficulty  I  am  re- 
straining my  curiosity  to  see  her — also  to  hear  her! — when  she 
learns  of  her  proscription  by  a  grateful  Republic. 

Eloise  [with  shrill  mockery].  Proscribed?  Eloise  d'Anville 
proscribed?  Your  inventions  should  be  more  plausible,  Good- 
man Spy!     I  knew  you  were  lying — 

Valsin  [smiling].    You  do  not  believe — 

Eloise  [proudly].  Eloise  d'Anville  is  a  known  Girondist. 
The  Gironde  is  the  real  power  in  France. 

Valsin  [mildly].     That  party  has  fallen. 

Eloise  [with  fire].     Not  far!     It  will  revive. 

Valsin.  Pardon,  Citizeness,  but  you  are  behind  the  times, 
and  they  are  very  fast  nowadays — the  times.  The  Gironde  is 
dead. 

Eloise  [ominously].  It  may  survive  you,  my  friend.  Take 
care! 


36  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

Valsin  [unimpressed].  The  Gironde  had  a  grand  faqade, 
and  that  was  all.  It  was  a  party  composed  of  amateurs  and 
orators;  and  of  course  there  were  some  noisy  camp-followers 
and  a  few  comic-opera  vivandieres,  such  as  this  d'Anville.  In 
short,  the  Gironde  looked  enormous  because  it  was  hollow.  It 
was  like  a  pie  that  is  all  crust.  We  have  tapped  the  crust — 
with  a  knife,  Citizeness.     There  is  nothing  left. 

Eloise  [contemptuously].  You  say  so.  Nevertheless,  the 
Rolands — 

Valsin  [gravely].  Roland  was  found  in  a  field  yesterday; 
he  had  killed  himself.  His  wife  was  guillotined  the  day  after 
you  left  Paris.   Every  one  of  their  political  friends  is  proscribed. 

Eloise  [shaking  as  with  bitter  cold].  It  is  a  lie!  Not 
Eloise  d'Anville! 

Valsin  [rising].  Would  you  like  to  see  the  warrant  for 
her  arrest?  [He  takes  a  packet  of  documents  from  his  breast 
pockety  selects  one,  and  spreads  it  open  before  her.]  Let  me 
read  you  her  description:  "  Eloise  d'Anville,  aristocrat.  Figure, 
comely.  Complexion,  blond.  Eyes,  dark  blue.  Nose,  straight. 
Mouth,  wide — " 

Eloise  [in  a  burst  of  passion,  striking  the  warrant  a  violent 
blow  with  her  clenched  fist].  Let  them  dare!  [Beside  herself, 
she  strikes  again,  tearing  the  paper  from  his  grasp.  She  stamps 
upon  it.]     Let  them  dare,  I  say! 

Valsin  [picking  up  the  warrant].  Dare  to  say  her  mouth 
is  wide? 

Eloise  [cyclonic].     Dare  to  arrest  her! 

Valsin.  It  does  seem  a  pity.  [He  folds  the  warrant  slowly 
and  replaces  it  in  his  pocket.]  Yes,  a  great  pity.  She  was  the 
one  amusing  thing  in  all  this  somberness.  She  will  be  missed. 
The  Revolution  will  lack  its  joke. 

Eloise  [recoiling,  her  passion  exhausted].  Ah,  infamy! 
[She  turns  from  him,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands.] 

Valsin  [with  a  soothing  gesture].  Being  only  her  friend, 
you  speak  mildly.  The  d'Anville  herself  would  call  it  blas- 
phemy. 

Eloise  [with  difficulty].     She  is — so  vain — then? 

Valsin  [lightly].    Oh,  a  type — an  actress. 

Eloise  [her  back  to  hi?n].    How  do  you  know?    You  said — 

Valsin.  That  I  had  not  encountered  her.  [Glibly.]  One 
knows  best  the  people  one  has  never  seen.     Intimacy  confuses 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  37 

judgment.  I  confess  to  that  amount  of  hatred  for  the  former 
Marquis  de  Valny-Cherault  that  I  take  as  great  an  interest  in 
all  that  concerns  him  as  if  I  loved  him.  And  the  little  d'Anville 
concerns  him — yes,  almost  one  would  say,  consumes  him.  The 
unfortunate  man  is  said  to  be  so  blindly  faithful  that  he  can 
speak  her  name  without  laughing. 

Eloise  [stunned].     Oh! 

Valsin  [goinff  on,  cheerily].  No  one  else  can  do  that,  Citl- 
zeness.  Jacobins,  Cordeliers,  Hebertists,  even  the  shattered 
relics  of  the  Gironde  itself,  all  alike  join  in  the  colossal  laughter 
at  this  Tricoteuse  in  Sevres — this  Jeanne  d'Arc  in  rice-powder! 

Eloise  [traffically].  They  laugh — and  proclaim  her  an 
outlaw ! 

Valsin  [wavinff  his  hand  carelessly].  Oh,  it  is  only  that 
we  are  sweeping  up  the  last  remnants  of  aristocracy,  and  she 
goes  with  the  rest — into  the  dust-heap.  She  should  have  re- 
mained a  royalist;  the  final  spectacle  might  have  had  dignity. 
As  it  is,  she  is  not  of  her  own  class,  not  of  ours:  neither  fish 
nor  flesh  nor — but  yes,  perhaps,  after  all,  she  is  a  fowl. 

Eloise  [brokenly].  Alas!  Homing — with  wounded  wing! 
[She  sinks  into  a  chair  with  pathetic  grace,  her  face  in  her 
hands.] 

Valsin  [surreptitiously  grinning].  Not  at  all  what  I  meant. 
\Brutally.]     Peacocks  don't  fly. 

Eloise  [regaining  her  feet  at  a  bound].  You  imitation 
dandy !     You — 

Valsin  [with  benevolence].  My  dear,  your  indignation  for 
your  friend  is  chivalrous.  It  is  admirable ;  but  she  is  not  worth 
it.  You  do  not  understand  her:  you  have  probably  seen  her 
so  much  that  you  have  never  seen  her  as  she  is. 

Eloise  [witheringly].  But  you,  august  Zeus,  having  never 
seen  her,  will  reveal  her  to  me! 

Valsin  [smoothly  urbane].  If  you  have  ears.  You  see,  she 
is  not  altogether  unique,  but  of  a  variety  known  to  men  who 
are  wise  enough  to  make  a  study  of  women. 

Eloise  [snapping  out  a  short,  loud  laugh  in  his  face]. 
Pouff! 

Valsin  [unruffled].  I  profess  myself  an  apprentice.  The 
science  itself  is  but  in  its  infancy.  Women  themselves  under- 
stand veiy  well  that  they  are  to  be  classified,  and  they  fear  that 
we  shall  perceive  it :  they  do  not  really  wish  to  be  known.    Yet 


38  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

it  is  coming;  some  day  our  cyclopedists  will  have  you  sorted, 
classed,  and  defined  with  precision ;  but  the  d'Alembert  of  the 
future  will  not  be  a  woman,  because  no  woman  so  disloyal  will 
ever  be  found.  Men  have  to  acquire  loyalty  to  their  sex:  yours 
is  an  instinct.  Citizen  governess,  I  will  give  you  a  reading 
of  the  little  d'Anville  from  this  unwritten  work.     To  begin — 

Eloise  [feverishly  interested,  but  affecting  languor^.  Must 
you? 

Valsin.  lo  Eloise  d'Anville  the  most  interesting  thing 
about  a  rose-bush  has  always  been  that  Eloise  d'Anville  could 
smell  it.  Moonlight  becomes  important  when  it  falls  upon  her 
face ;  sunset  is  worthy  when  she  grows  rosy  in  it.  To  her  mind, 
the  universe  was  set  in  motion  to  be  the  background  for  a 
decoration,  and  she  is  the  decoration.  She  believes  that  the 
cathedral  was  built  for  the  fresco.  And  when  a  dog  interests 
her,  it  is  because  he  would  look  well  beside  her  in  a  painting. 
Such  dogs  have  no  minds.  I  refer  you  to  all  the  dogs  in  the 
portraits  of  Beauties. 

Eloise  {not  at  all  displeased;  pretending  carelessness^.  Ah, 
you  have  heard  that  she  is  beautiful  ? 

Valsin.  Far  worse :  that  she  is  a  Beauty.  Let  nothing  ever 
tempt  you,  my  dear,  into  setting  up  in  that  line.  For  you  are 
very  well-appearing,  I  assure  you ;  and  if  you  had  been  sur- 
rounded with  all  the  disadvantages  of  the  d'Anville,  who  knows 
but  that  you  might  have  become  as  famous  a  Beauty  as  she? 
What  makes  a  Beauty  is  not  the  sumptuous  sculpture  alone,  but 
a  very  peculiar  arrogance — not  in  the  least  arrogance  of  mind, 
my  little  governess.  In  this,  your  d'Anville  emerged  from 
childhood  full-panoplied  indeed ;  and  the  feather-head  court  fell 
headlong  at  her  feet.     It  was  the  fated  creature's  ruin. 

Eloise  [placidly].  And  it  is  because  of  her  beauty  that  you 
drag  her  to  the  guillotine? 

Valsin.    Bless  you,  I  merely  convey  her! 

Eloise.  Tell  me,  logician,  was  it  not  her  beauty  that  in- 
spired her  to  give  her  property  to  the  Nation? 

Valsin.    It  was. 

Eloise.  What  perception!  I  am  faint  with  admiration. 
And  no  doubt  it  was  her  beauty  that  made  her  a  Republican? 

Valsin.    What  else? 

Eloise.  Hail,  oracle!  [She  releases  an  arpeggio  of  satiric 
laughter. \ 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  39 

Valsin.  That  laugh  is  diaphanous.  I  see  you  through  it, 
already  convinced.  [She  stops  laughing  immediately.]  Ha! 
we  may  proceed.  Remark  this,  governess:  a  Beauty  is  the  living 
evidence  of  man's  immortality;  the  one  plain  proof  that  he  has 
a  soul. 

Eloise.     It  is  not  so  bad  then,  after  all? 

Valsin.  It  is  utterly  bad.  But  of  all  people  a  Beauty  is 
most  conscious  of  her  duality.  Her  whole  life  is  based  upon 
her  absolute  knowledge  that  her  Self  and  her  body  are  two. 
She  sacrifices  all  things  to  her  beauty  because  her  beauty  feeds 
her  Self  with  a  dreadful  food  which  it  has  made  her  unable  to 
live  without. 

Eloise.  My  little  gentleman,  you  talk  like  a  sentimental 
waiter.     Your  metaphors  are  all  hot  from  the  kitchen. 

Valsin  [nettled].  It  is  natural;  unlike  your  Eloise,  I  am 
really  of  "  the  People  " — and  starved  much  in  my  youth. 

Eloise.    But,  like  her,  you  are  still  hungry. 

Valsin.  A  Beauty  is  a  species  of  cannibal  priestess,  my  dear. 
She  will  make  burnt-offerings  of  her  father  and  her  mother, 
her  sisters — her  lovers — to  her  beauty,  that  it  may  in  turn 
bring  her  the  food  she  must  have  or  perish. 

Eloise.  Bourn!  [She  snaps  her  fingers.]  And  of  course 
she  bathes  in  the  blood  of  little  children? 

Valsin   [grimly].     Often. 

Eloise  [averting  her  gaze  from  his].  This  mysterious  food — 

Valsin.  Not  at  all  mjsterious.  Sensation.  There  you  have 
it.  And  that  is  why  Eloise  d'Anville  is  a  renegade.  You  under- 
stand perfectly. 

Eloise.    You  are  too  polite.    No. 

Valsin  [gaily].  Behold,  then!  Many  women  who  are  not 
Beauties  are  beautiful,  but  in  such  women  you  do  not  always 
discover  beauty  at  your  first  glance :  it  is  disclosed  with  a  subtle 
tardiness.  It  does  not  dazzle;  it  is  reluctant;  but  it  grows  as 
you  look  again  and  again.  You  get  a  little  here,  a  little  there, 
like  glimpses  of  children  hiding  in  a  garden.  It  is  shy,  and 
sometimes  closed  in  from  you  altogether,  and  then,  unexpect- 
edly, this  belated  loveliness  springs  into  bloom  before  your  very 
eyes.  It  retains  the  capacity  of  surprise,  the  vital  element  of 
charm.  But  the  Beauty  lays  all  waste  before  her  at  a  stroke: 
it  is  soon  over.  Thus  your  Eloise,  brought  to  court,  startled 
Versailles;  the  sensation  was  overwhelming.     Then  Versailles 


40  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

got  used  to  her,  just  as  it  had  to  its  other  prodigies:  the  foun- 
tains were  there,  the  King  was  there,  the  d'Anville  was  there; 
and  naturally,  one  had  seen  them ;  saw  them  every  day — one 
talked  of  matters  less  accepted.  That  was  horrible  to  Eloise. 
She  had  tasted ;  the  appetite,  once  stirred,  was  insatiable.  At 
any  cost  she  m.ust  henceforth  have  always  the  sensation  of  being 
a  sensation.  She  must  be  the  pivot  of  a  reeling  world.  So  she 
went  into  politics.  Ah,  Citizeness,  there  was  one  man  who 
understood  Beauties — not  Homer,  who  wrote  of  Helen!  Ro- 
mance is  gallant  by  profession,  and  Homer  lied  like  a  poet. 
For  the  truth  about  the  Trojan  War  is  that  the  wise  Ulysses 
made  it,  not  because  Paris  stole  Helen,  but  because  the  Trojans 
were  threatening  to  bring  her  back. 

Eloise  [unwarily].  Who  was  the  man  that  understood 
Beauties? 

Valsin.  Bluebeard.  [He  crosses  the  room  to  the  dressing- 
table,  leans  his  back  against  it  in  an  easy  attitude,  his  elbows 
resting  upon  the  top.] 

Eloise  [slowly,  a  little  tremulously].  And  so  Eloise 
d'Anville  should  have  her  head  cut  off? 

Valsin.  Well,  she  thought  she  was  in  politics,  didn't  she? 
[Suavely.]  You  may  be  sure  she  thoroughly  enjoyed  her  hal- 
lucination that  she  was  a  great  figure  in  the  Revolution — which 
was  cutting  off  the  heads  of  so  many  of  her  relatives  and  old 
friends!     Don't  waste  your  pity,  my  dear. 

Eloise  [looking  at  him  fixedly].  Citizen,  you  must  have 
thought  a  great  deal  about  my  unhappy  friend.  She  might  be 
flattered  by  so  searching  an  interest. 

Valsin  [negligently].  Not  interest  in  her,  governess,  but 
in  the  Emigrant  who  cools  his  heels  on  the  other  side  of  that 
door,  greatly  to  my  enjoyment,  waiting  my  pleasure  to  arrest 
him.  The  poor  wretch  is  the  one  remaining  lover  of  this  girl: 
faithful  because  he  let  his  passion  for  her  become  a  habit;  and 
he  will  never  get  over  it  until  he  has  had  possession.  She  has 
made  him  suffer  frightfully,  but  I  shall  never  forgive  her  for 
not  having  dealt  him  the  final  stroke.  It  would  have  saved  me 
"all  the  bother  I  have  been  put  to  in  avenging  the  injury  he 
did  me. 

Eloise  [frowning].  What  "final  stroke"  could  she  have 
"dealt"  him? 

Valsin  [with  sudden  vehement  intensity].     She  could  have 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  41 

loved  him!  [He  strikes  the  table  with  his  fist.]  I  see  it!  I 
see  it!  Beauty's  husband!  [Pounding  the  table  with  each 
exclamation,  his  voice  rising  in  excitement.]  What  a  vision! 
This  damned,  proud,  loving  Louis,  a  pomade  bearer!  A  but- 
toner!  An  errand-boy  to  the  perfumer's,  to  the  chemist's,  to 
the  milliner's!    A  groom  of  the  powder-closet — 

Eloise  [snatching  at  the  opportunity].     How  noisy  you  are! 

Valsin  [discomfited,  apologetically].  You  see,  it  is  only  so 
lately  that  we  of  "  the  People  "  have  dared  even  to  whisper. 
Of  course,  now  that  we  are  free  to  shout,  we  overdo  it.  We 
let  our  voices  out,  we  let  our  joys  out,  we  let  our  hates  out. 
We  let  everything  out — except  our  prisoners!  [He  smiles  win- 
ning I  y.] 

Eloise  [slowly].  Do  you  guess  what  all  this  bluster — this 
tirade  upon  the  wickedness  of  beauty — makes  me  think? 

Valsin.  Certainly.  Being  a  woman,  you  cannot  imagine  a 
bitterness  which  is  not  "  personal." 

Eloise  [laughing].  "Being  a  woman,"  I  think  that  the 
person  who  has  caused  you  the  greatest  suffering  in  your  life 
must  be  very  good-looking! 

Valsin  [calmly].  Quite  right.  It  was  precisely  this 
d'Anville.  I  will  tell  you.  [He  sits  on  the  arm  of  a  chair 
near  her,  and  continues  briskly.]  I  was  not  always  a  politician. 
Six  years  ago  I  was  a  soldier  in  the  Valny  regiment  of  cavalry. 
That  was  the  old  army,  that  droll  army,  that  royal  army;  so 
ridiculous  that  it  was  truly  majestic.  In  the  Valny  regiment 
we  had  some  rouge-pots  for  officers — and  for  a  colonel,  who 
but  our  Emigrant  yonder!  Aha!  we  suffered  in  the  ranks,  let 
me  tell  you,  when  Eloise  had  been  coy;  and  one  morning  it 
was  my  turn.  You  may  have  heard  that  she  was  betrothed  first 
to  Louis  and  later  to  several  others?  My  martyrdom  occurred 
the  day  after  she  had  announced  to  the  court  her  betrothal  to 
the  young  Due  de  Crcil,  whose  father  afterward  interfered. 
Louis  put  us  on  drill  in  a  hard  rain:  he  had  the  habit  of  reliev- 
ing his  chagrin  like  that.  My  horse  fell,  and  happened  to 
shower  our  commander  with  mud.  Louis  let  out  all  his  rage 
upon  me:  it  was  an  excuse,  and,  naturally,  he  disliked  mud. 
But  I  was  rolling  in  it,  with  my  horse:  I  also  disliked  it — and 
I  was  indiscreet  enough  to  attempt  some  small  reply.  That 
finished  my  soldiering,  Citizeness.  He  had  me  tied  to  a  post 
before  the  barracks  for  the  rest  of  the  day.     I  remember  with 


42  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

remarkable  distinctness  that  the  valets  of  heaven  had  neglected 
to  warm  the  rain  for  that  bath ;  that  it  was  February ;  and  that 
Louis's  orders  had  left  me  nothing  to  wear  upon  my  back  except 
an  unfulsome  descriptive  placard  and  my  modesty.  Altogether 
it  was  a  disadvantageous  position,  particularly  for  the  exchange 
of  repartee  with  such  of  my  comrades  as  my  youthful  amiability 
had  not  endeared ;  I  have  seldom  seen  more  cheerful  indiffer- 
ence to  bad  weather.  Inclement  skies  failed  to  injure  the  spec- 
tacle: it  was  truly  the  great  performance  of  my  career;  some 
people  would  not  even  go  home  to  eat,  and  peddlers  did  a  good 
trade  in  cakes  and  wine.  In  the  evening  they  whipped  me  con- 
scientiously— my  tailor  has  never  since  made  me  an  entirely 
comfortable  coat.  Then  they  gave  me  the  place  of  honor  at 
the  head  of  a  procession  by  torchlight  and  drummed  me  out  of 
camp  with  my  placard  upon  my  back.  So  I  adopted  another 
profession:  I  had  a  friend  who  was  a  doctor  in  the  stables  of 
d'Artois;  and  I  knew  horses.     He  made  me  his  assistant. 

Eloise   [shuddering^.     You  are  a  veterinarian! 

Valsin  [smiling].  No;  a  horse-doctor.  It  was  thus  I  "  re- 
tired "  from  the  army  and  became  a  politician.  My  friend  was 
only  a  horse-doctor  himself,  but  his  name  happened  to  be  Marat. 

Eloise.  Ah,  frightful!  [For  the  first  time  she  begins  to 
feel  genuine  alarm.] 

Valsin.  The  sequence  is  simple.  If  Eloise  d'Anville  hadn't 
coquetted  with  young  Creil  I  shouldn't  be  Commissioner  here 
to-day,  settling  my  account  with  Louis.  I  am  in  his  debt  for 
more  than  the  beating:  I  should  tell  you  there  was  a  woman 
in  my  case,  a  slender  lace-maker  with  dark  eyes — very  pretty 
eyes.  She  had  furnished  me  with  a  rival,  a  corporal;  and  he 
brought  her  for  a  stroll  in  the  rain  past  our  barracks  that  day 
when  I  was  attracting  so  much  unsought  attention.  They 
waited  for  the  afterpiece,  enjoyed  a  pasty  and  a  bottle  of 
Beaune,  and  went  away  laugliing  cozily  together.  I  did  not 
see  my  pretty  lace-maker  again,  not  for  years — not  until  a 
month  ago.  Her  corporal  was  still  with  her,  and  it  was  their 
turn  to  be  undesirably  conspicuous.  They  were  part  of  a  pro- 
cession passing  along  the  Rue  St.  Honore  on  its  way  to  the 
Place  of  the  Revolution.  They  were  standing  up  in  the  cart; 
the  lace-maker  had  grown  fat,  and  she  was  scolding  her  poor 
corporal  bitterly.  What  a  habit  that  must  have  been ! — they 
were  not  five  minutes  from  the  guillotine.     I  own  that  a  thrill 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  43 

of  gratitude  to  Louis  temporarily  softened  me  toward  him, 
though  at  the  very  moment  I  was  following  him  through  the 
crowd.     At  least  he  saved  me  from  the  lace-maker! 

Eloise   [shrinking  from  kirn].     You  are  horrible! 

Valsin.  To  my  regret  you  must  find  me  more  and 
more  so. 

Eloise  [panting].  You  are  going  to  take  us  back  to  Paris, 
then?  To  the  Tribunal — and  to  the —  [She  covers  her  eyes 
with  her  hands.] 

Valsin  [gravely].  I  can  give  you  no  comfort,  governess. 
You  are  involved  with  the  Emigrant,  and,  to  be  frank,  I  am 
going  to  do  as  horrible  things  to  Louis  as  I  can  invent — and 
I  am  an  ingenious  man.  [His  manner  becomes  sinister.]  I 
am  near  the  top.  The  cinders  of  Marat  are  in  the  Pantheon, 
but  Robespierre  still  flames;  and  he  claims  me  as  his  friend. 
I  can  do  what  I  will.  And  I  have  much  in  store  for  Louis 
before  he  shall  be  so  fortunate  as  to  die ! 

Eloise  [faintly].  And— and  Eloise— d'Anville  ?  [Her 
hands  fall  from  her  face:  he  sees  large,  beautiful  tears  upon 
her  cheeks.] 

Valsin  [coldly].  Yes.  [She  is  crushed  for  the  moment; 
then,  recov-ering  herself  with  a  violent  effort,  lifts  her  head  de- 
fiantly and  stands  erect,  facing  him.] 

Eloise.  You  take  her  head  because  your  officer  punished 
you,  six  years  ago,  for  a  breach  of  military  discipline! 

Valsin  [in  a  lighter  tone].  Oh  no.  I  take  it,  Just  as  she 
injured  me — incidentallj'.  In  truth,  Citizeness,  it  isn't  I  who 
take  it:  I  only  arrest  her  because  the  government  has  pro- 
scribed her. 

Eloise.  And  you've  just  finished  telling  me  you  were  pre- 
paring tortures  for  her!  I  thought  you  an  intelligent  man. 
Pah!  You're  only  a  gymnast.  [She  turns  away  from  him 
haughtily  and  moves  toward  the  door.] 

Valsin  [touching  his  scarf  of  office].  True.  I  climb.  _  [She 
halts  suddenly,  as  if  startled  by  this;  she  stands  as  she  is,  her 
back  to  him,  for  several  moments,  and  does  not  change  her  atti- 
tude when  she  speaks.] 

Eloise  [sloivly].    You  climb  alone. 

Valsin    [tuith  a  suspicious  glance  at  her].     Yes — alone. 

Eloise  [in  a  low  voice].  Why  didn't  you  take  the  lace- 
maker  with  you?    You  might  have  been  happier.     [Very  slowly 


44  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

she  turns  and  comes  toward  him,  her  eyes  full  upon  his:  she 
moves  deliberately  and  with  incomparable  grace.  He  seems  to 
be  making  an  effort  to  look  away,  and  failing :  he  cannot  release 
his  eyes  from  the  glorious  and  starry  glamour  that  holds  them. 
She  comes  very  close  to  him,  so  close  that  she  almost  touches 
him,] 

Eloise  [in  a  half-whisper].  You  might  have  been  happier 
with — a  friend — to  climb  with  you. 

Valsin    {demoralized].     Citizeness — I  am — I — 

Eloise  [in  a  voice  of  velvet].    Yes,     Say  it.    You  are — 

Valsin  [desperately].  I  have  told  you  that  I  am  the  most 
susceptible  of  men. 

Eloise  [impulsively  putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder].  Is 
It  a  crime?  Come,  my  friend,  you  are  a  man  who  does  climb: 
you  will  go  over  all.  You  believe  in  the  Revolution  because 
you  have  used  it  to  lift  you.  But  other  things  can  help  you, 
too.     Don't  you  need  them? 

Valsint  [understanding  perfectly,  gasping].  Need  what? 
[She  draws  her  hand  from  his  shoulder,  moves  back  from  him 
slightly,  and  crosses  her  arms  upon  her  bosom  with  a  royal 
meekness.] 

Eloise  [grandly].    Do  I  seem  so  useless? 

Valsin  [in  a  distracted  voice].  Heaven  help  me!  What 
do  you  want? 

Eloise.  Let  these  people  go.  [Hurriedly,  leaning  near 
him.]  I  have  promised  to  save  them:  give  them  their  permit 
to  embark,  and  I —  [She  pauses,  flushing  beautifully,  but  does 
not  take  her  eyes  from  him.]  I — I  do  not  wish  to  leave  France. 
My  place  is  in  Paris.  You  will  go  into  the  National  Com- 
mittee. You  can  be  its  ruler.  You  will  rule  it!  I  believe  in 
you!  [Glowing  like  a  rose  of  fire.]  I  will  go  with  you.  I 
will  help  you!     I  will  marry  you! 

Valsin  [in  a  fascinated  whisper].  Good  Lord!  [He  stum- 
bles back  from  her,  a  strange  light  in  his  eyes.] 

Eloise.    You  are  afraid — 

Valsin  [with  sudden  loudness].  I  am!  Upon  my  soul,  I 
am  afraid ! 

Eloise  [smiling  gloriously  upon  him].  Of  what,  my  friend? 
Tell  me  of  what? 

Valsin  [explosively].  Of  myself!  I  am  afraid  of  myself 
because  I  am  a  prophet.     This  is  precisely  what  I  foretold  to 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  45 

myself  you  would  do!     I  knew  it,  yet  I  am  aghast  when  it 
happens — aghast  at  my  own  cleverness! 

Eloise  [bewildered  to  blankness].     What? 

Valsin  [half  hysterical  with  outrageous  vanity],  I  swear 
I  knew  it,  and  it  fits  so  exactly  that  I  am  afraid  of  myself! 
Aha,  Valsin,  you  rogue!  I  should  hate  to  have  you  on  my 
track !  Citizen  governess,  you  are  a  wonderful  person,  but  not 
so  wonderful  as  this  devil  of  a  Valsin ! 

Eloise  [vaffuely,  in  a  dead  voice].  I  cannot  understand 
what  you  are  talking  about.     Do  you  mean — 

Valsin.  And  what  a  spell  was  upon  me !  I  was  near  calling 
Dossonville  to  preserve  me. 

Eloise  [speaking  with  a  strange  naturalness,  like  a  child's]. 
You  mean — you  don't  want  me? 

Valsin.  Ah,  Heaven  help  me,  I  am  going  to  laugh  again! 
Oh,  ho,  ho!  I  am  spent!  [He  drops  into  a  chair  and  gives 
way  to  another  attack  of  uproarious  hilarity.]  Ah,  ha,  ha,  ha! 
Oh,  my  liver,  ha,  ha!  No,  Citizeness,  I  do  not  want  you! 
Oh,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

Eloise.  Oh!  [She  utters  a  choked  scream  and  rushes  at 
him.]     Swine! 

Valsin  [warding  her  off  with  outstretched  hands].  Spare 
me!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  I  am  helpless!  Ho,  ho,  ho!  Citizeness,  it 
would  not  be  worth  your  while  to  strangle  a  man  who  is  already 
dying! 

Eloise  [beside  herself].    Do  you  dream  that  I  meant  it? 

Valsin   [feebly].     Meant  to  strangle  me? 

Eloise  [frantic].     To  give  myself  to  you! 

Valsin.     In  short,  to — to  marry  me!     [He  splutters.] 

Eloise  [furiously].     It  was  a  ruse — 

Valsin  [soothingly].  Yes,  yes,  a  trick.   I  saw  that  all  along. 

Eloise  [even  more  infuriated].  For  their  sake,  beast!  [She 
points  to  the  other  room.]     To  save  them! 

Valsin  [wiping  his  eyes].  Of  course,  of  course.  [He  rises, 
stepping  quickly  to  the  side  of  the  chair  away  fro?n  her  and 
watching  her  warily.]  I  knew  it  was  to  save  them.  We'll  put 
it  like  that. 

Eloise  [in  an  anger  of  exasperation].     It  was  that!  ^ 

Valsin.  Yes,  yes.  [Keeping  his  distance.]  I  saw  it  from 
the  first.  [Suppressing  symptoms  of  returning  mirth.]  It  was 
perfectly  plain.     You  mustn't  excite  yourself — nothing  could 


46  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

have  been  clearer!     [J  giggle  escapes  him,  and  he  steps  hastily 
backward  as  she  advances  upon  himJ] 

Eloise.  Poodle!  Valet!  Scum  of  the  alleys!  Sheep  of  the 
prisons!  Jailer!  Hangman!  Assassin!  Brigand!  Horse- 
doctor!  [She  hurls  the  final  epithet  at  him  in  a  climax  of 
ferocity  which  wholly  exhausts  her;  and  she  sinks  into  the  chair 
by  the  desk,  with  her  arms  upon  the  desk  and  her  burning  face 
hidden  in  her  arms.  Valsin,  morbidly  chuckling,  in  spite  of 
himself,  at  each  of  her  insults,  has  retreated  farther  and  farther, 
until  he  stands  with  his  back  against  the  door  of- the  inner  room, 
his  right  hand  behind  him,  resting  on  the  latch.  As  her  furious 
eyes  leave  him  he  silently  opens  the  door,  letting  it  remain  a 
feiu  inches  ajar  and  keeping  his  back  to  it.  Then,  satisfied  that 
what  he  intends  to  say  will  be  overheard  by  those  within,  he 
erases  all  expression  from  his  face,  and  strides  to  the  dismantled 
doorway  in  the  passage. \ 

Valsin  [calling  loudly].  Dossonville!  [He  returns,  com- 
ing down  briskly  to  Eloise.  His  tone  is  crisp  and  soldier-like.] 
Citizeness,  I  have  had  my  great  hour.  I  proceed  with  the  arrests. 
I  have  given  you  four  plenty  of  time  to  prepare  yourselves. 
Time?  Why,  the  Emigrant  could  have  changed  clothes  with 
one  of  the  women  in  there  a  dozen  times  if  he  had  hoped  to 
escape  in  that  fashion — as  historical  prisoners  have  won  clear, 
it  is  related.  Fortunately,  that  is  impossible  just  now;  and  he 
will  not  dare  to  attempt  it. 

Dossonville  [appearing  in  the  hallway].  Present,  my 
chieftain! 

Valsin  [sharply].  Attend,  Dossonville.  The  returned 
Emigrant,  Valny-Cherault,  is  forfeited;  but  because  I  cherish 
a  special  grievance  against  him,  I  have  decided  upon  a  special 
punishment  for  him.  It  does  not  please  me  that  he  should  have 
the  comfort  and  ministrations  of  loving  women  on  his  journey 
to  the  Tribunal.  No,  no;  the  presence  of  his  old  sweetheart 
would  make  even  the  scaffold  sweet  to  him.  Therefore  I  shall 
take  him  alone.     I  shall  let  these  women  go. 

Dossonville.  What  refinement!  Admirable!  [Eloise 
slowly  rises,  staring  incredulously  at  Valsin.] 

Valsin  [picking  up  the  "permit"  from  the  desk],  "Per- 
mit the  Citizen  Balsage  and  his  sister,  the  Citizeness  Virginie 
Balsage,  and  his  second  sister,  Marie  Balsage,  and  Eloise 
d'Anville — "     Ha!     You  see,  Dossonville,  since  one  of  these 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  47 

three  women  is  here,  there  are  two  in  the  other  room  with  the 
Emigrant.  They  are  to  come  out,  leaving  him  there.  First, 
however,  we  shall  disarm  him.  You  and  I  have  had  sufficient 
experience  in  arresting  aristocrats  to  know  that  they  are  not 
always  so  sensible  as  to  give  themselves  up  peaceably,  and  I 
happened  to  see  the  outline  of  a  pistol  under  the  Emigrant's 
frock  the  other  day  in  the  diligence.  We  may  as  well  save  one 
of  us  from  a  detestable  hole  through  the  body.  [He  steps 
toward  the  door,  speaking  sharply.]  Emigrant,  you  have 
heard.  For  your  greater  chagrin,  these  three  devoted  women 
are  to  desert  you.  Being  an  aristocrat,  you  will  pretend  to 
prefer  this  arrangement.  They  are  to  leave  at  once.  Throw 
your  pistol  into  this  room,  and  I  will  agree  not  to  make  the 
arrest  until  they  are  in  safety.  They  can  reach  your  vessel  in 
five  minutes.  When  they  have  gone,  I  give  you  my  word  not 
to  open  this  door  for  ten.  [A  pistol  is  immediately  thrown 
out  of  the  door,  and  falls  at  Valsin's  feet.  He  picks  it  up,  his 
eyes  alight  with  increasing  excitement.] 

Valsin  [tossing  the  pistol  to  Dossonville].  Call  the  lieu- 
tenant. [DossONViLLE  goes  to  the  window,  leans  out,  and 
beckons.  Valsin  writes  hastily  at  the  desk,  not  sitting  down.] 
"  Permit  the  three  women  Balsage  to  embark  without  delay 
upon  the  Jeune  Pierrette.  Signed :  Valsin."  There,  Citizeness, 
is  a  "  permit  "  which  permits.  [He  thrusts  the  paper  into  the 
hand  of  Eloise,  swings  toward  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  and 
raps  loudly  upon  it.]  Come,  my  feminines!  Your  sailors  await 
you — brave,  but  no  judges  of  millinery.  There's  a  fair  wind 
for  you ;  and  a  grand  toilet  is  wasted  at  sea.  Come,  charmers ; 
come!  [The  door  is  half  opened,  and  Madame  de  Laseyne, 
white  and  trembling  violently,  enters  quickly,  shielding  as  much 
as  she  can  the  inexpressibly  awkward  figure  of  her  brother,  be- 
hind whom  she  extends  her  hand,  closing  the  door  sharply.  He 
wears  the  brocaded  skirt  which  Madame  de  Laseyne  has 
taken  from  the  portmanteati,  and  Eloise's  long  mantle,  the 
lifted  hood  and  Madame  de  Laseyne's  veil  shrouding  his  head 
and  face.] 

Valsin  [in  a  stifled  voice].  At  last!  At  last  one  beholds 
the  regal  d'Anville!     No  Amazon — 

Dossonville  [aghast].    It  looks  like — 

Valsin  [shouting].  It  doesn't!  [He  bows  gallantly  to 
Louis.]     A  cruel  veil,  but,  oh,  what  queenly  grace!     [Louis 


48  BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

stumbles  in  the  skirt.  Valsin  falls  back,  clutching  at  his  side. 
But  Eloise  rushes  to  Louis  and  throws  herself  upon  her  knees 
at  his  feet.  She  pulls  his  head  down  to  hers  and  kisses  him 
through  the  veil.] 

Valsin  [madly].  Oh,  touching  devotion!  Oh,  sisters!  Oh, 
love!    Oh,  honey!    Oh,  petticoats — 

DossoNViLLE  [interrupting  humbly].  The  lieutenant,  Citi- 
zen Commissioner.  [He  points  to  the  hallway,  tu^here  the 
officer  appears,  standing  at  attention.] 

Valsin  [wheeling].  Officer,  conduct  these  three  persons  to 
the  quay.  Place  them  on  board  the  Jeune  Pierrette.  The  cap- 
tain will  weigh  anchor  instantly.      [The  officer  salutes.] 

Anne  [hoarsely  to  Louis,  who  is  lifting  the  weeping  Eloise 
to  her  feet].    Quick!    In  the  name  of — 

Valsin.  Off  with  you!  [Madame  de  Laseyne  seizes  the 
portmanteau  and  rushes  to  the  broken  doorway,  half  dragging 
the  others  with  her.  They  go  out  in  a  tumultuous  hurry,  fol- 
lowed by  the  officer.  Eloise  sends  one  last  glance  over  her 
shoulder  at  Valsin  as  she  disappears,  and  one  word  of  con- 
centrated venom:  "  Buffoon!  "  In  wild  spirits  he  blows  a  kiss 
to  her.  The  fugitives  are  heard  clattering  madly  down  the 
stairs.  ] 

Dossonville  [excitedly].  We  can  take  the  Emigrant  now. 
[Going  to  the  inner  door.]     Why  wait — 

Valsin.    That  room  is  empty. 

Dossonville.    What! 

Valsin  [shouting  with  laughter].  He's  gone!  Not  bare- 
backed, but  in  petticoats:  that's  worse!  He's  gone,  I  tell  you! 
The  other  was  the  d'Anville. 

Dossonville.    Then  you  recog — 

Valsin.  Imbecile,  she's  as  well  known  as  the  Louvre! 
They're  off  on  their  honeymoon!  She'll  take  him  now!  She 
will!  She  will,  on  the  soul  of  a  prophet!  [He  rushes  to  the 
window  and  leans  far  out,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice:] 
Quits  with  you,  Louis!  Quits/  Quits/  [He  falls  back  from 
the  luindow  and  relapses  into  a  chair,  cackling  ecstatically.] 

Dossonville  [hoarse  with  astonishment].  You've  let  him 
go !    You've  let  'em  all  go ! 

Valsin  [weak  with  laughter].  Well,  you're  not  going  to 
inform.  [With  a  sudden  reversion  to  extreme  seriousness,  he 
levels  a  sinister  forefinger  at  his  companion.]     And,  also,  take 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN  49 

care  of  your  health,  friend ;  remember  constantly  that  you  have 
a  weak  throat,  and  don't  you  ever  mention  this  to  my  wife.' 
These  are  bad  times,  my  Dossonville,  and  neither  you  nor  I 
will  see  the  end  of  them.  Good  Lord!  Can't  we  have  a  little 
fun  as  we  go  along?  [A  fresh  convulsion  seizes  him,  and  he 
rocks  himself  pitiably  in  his  chair.] 


[the  curtain.] 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE   MINUTE 
A  DRAMATIC  FANTASY  IN  ONE  ACT 

By 

ERNEST  DOWSON 

Performance  Free 


Ernest  Christopher  Dowson,  now  generally  known  simply  as 
Ernest  Dowson,  was  born  at  the  Grove,  Belmont  Hill,  Lee, 
Kent,  August  2,  1867,  and  died  in  London  thirty-three  years 
later.  His  schooling,  because  of  his  delicate  health,  was  ir- 
regular, and  he  spent  too  short  a  time  at  Queen's  College, 
Oxford,  to  take  a  degree.  He  lived  abroad  much,  but  during 
his  sojourns  in  London  in  the  'nineties  belonged  to  the  Rhymer's 
Club  ^  that  met  in  an  upper  room  of  Johnson's  own  "  Cheshire 
Cheese."  His  death  from  consumption  brought  to  a  close  a  life 
marred  by  waste  and  sordid  associations. 

The  Pierrot  of  the  Minute,  Ernest  Dowson's  only  dramatic 
attempt,  is  touched  like  the  preceding  play  with  the  glamour  of 
the  old  regime.  Its  charming  artificiality  suggests  the  pastoral 
games  to  which  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Louis  XV's  circle 
may  have  turned  for  relief  after  the  formalities  and  extrava- 
gances of  their  life  at  court. 

Dowson's  play,  written  in  1892,  is  mentioned  in  one  of  his 
letters,  dated  October  twenty-fourth  of  that  year:  "  I  have  been 
frightfully  busy,"  he  wrote,  "  having  rashly  undertaken  to  make 
a  little  Pierrot  play  in  verse  .  .  .  which  is  to  be  played  at 
Aldershot  and  afterwards  at  the  Chelsea  Town  Hall:  the 
article  to  be  delivered  in  a  fortnight.  So  until  this  period  of 
mental  agony  is  past,  I  can  go  nowhere."  Anyone  who  has 
ever  had  to  write  something  that  had  to  be  ready  on  a  certain 
date  will  understand  the  quality  of  Dowson's  emotion  in  this 
letter. 

A  recent  critic  who  has  studied  the  literary  fashions  of  the 
group  to  which  Dowson  belonged  and  found  that  the  members 
were  addicted  to  the  frequent  use  of  the  adjective,  white,  says: 
"  Ernest  Dowson  was  dominated  by  a  sense  of  whiteness.  .  .  . 
The  Pierrot  of  the  Minute  is  a  veritable  symphony  in  white. 
He  calls  for  '  white  music  '  and  the  Moon  Maiden  rides  through 

1  Yeats  has  commemorated  this  club  in  the  following  lines  in  his 
poem,    The   Grey  Rock: 

"Poets   with   whom   I    learned    my   trade, 
Companions  of  the  Cheshire  Cheese." 

53 


54  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

the  skies  '  drawn  by  a  team  of  milk-white  butterflies,'  and  far- 
ther on  in  the  same  poem  we  have  a  palace  of  many  rooms: 

" '  Within  the  fairest,  clad  in  purity, 
Our   mother  dwelt   immemorially: 

Moon-calm,   moon-pale,  with  moon-stones  on  her  gown. 
The  floor  she  treads  with  little  pearls  is  sown.     .     .' " 

When  the  play  was  given  in  this  country  at  the  McCallum 
Theatre  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  it  was  "  staged  in 
black  and  white,  the  garden  set  having  black  walls  on  which 
fantastic  white  forms  were  stenciled.  The  bench,  the  statue, 
and  Pierrot  and  his  lady  love  were  in  white.  To  have  tried 
to  depict  a  real  garden  would  have  crowded  the  small  stage, 
so  a  garden  was  suggested,  and  by  suggestion  caught  the  spirit 
of  the  piece."  ^ 

Granville  Bantock,  the  English  musician,  composed  The 
Pierrot  of  the  Minute.  A  Comedy  Overture  to  a  Dramatic 
Phantasy  by  Ernest  Dowson,  which  he  conducted  at  the 
Worcester  Festival  in  igo8.  This  music  in  whole  or  part  may 
be  used  in  connection  with  a  production  of  Dowson's  play. 

^  Constance  D'Arcy  Mackay,  The  Little  Theatre  in  the  United 
States,  New  York,  1917,  p.  97. 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

CHARACTERS 

A  Moon  Maiden. 
Pierrot. 

SCENE. — A  glade  in  the  Pare  du  Petit  Trianon.  In  the 
center  a  Doric  temple  with  steps  coming  down  the  stage. 
On  the  left  a  little  Cupid  on  a  pedestal.     Twilight. 

Enter  Pierrot  with  his  hands  full  of  lilies.  He  is  burdened 
with  a  little  basket.  He  stands  gazing  at  the  Temple  and 
the  Statue. 

Pierrot. 

My  journey's  end !    This  surely  is  the  glade 

Which  I  was  promised:  I  have  well  obeyed! 

A  clue  of  lilies  was  I  bid  to  find, 

Where  the  green  alleys  most  obscurely  wind ; 

Where  tall  oaks  darkliest  canopy  o'erhead, 

And  moss  and  violet  make  the  softest  bed; 

Where  the  path  ends,  and  leagues  behind  me  lie 

The  gleaming  courts  and  gardens  of  Versailles; 

The  lilies  streamed  before  me,  green  and  white; 

I  gathered,  following:  they  led  me  right. 

To  the  bright  temple  and  the  sacred  grove: 

This  is,  in  truth,  the  very  shrine  of  Love! 
[He  gathers  together  his  flowers  and  lays  them  at  the  foot 

of  Cupid's  statue;  then  he  goes  timidly  up  the  first  steps 

of  the  temple  and  stops.^ 

It  is  so  solitary,  I  grow  afraid. 

Is  there  no  priest  here,  no  devoted  maid? 

Is  there  no  oracle,  no  voice  to  speak, 

Interpreting  to  me  the  word  I  seek? 
[A   very  gentle  music  of  lutes  floats  out  from   the  temple. 

Pierrot  starts  back;  he  shows  extreme  surprise;  then  he 

SS 


56  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

returns  to  the  foreground,  and  crouches  down  in  rapt  at- 
tention until  the  music  ceases.     His  face  grows  puzzled 

and  petulant.] 

Too  soon!  too  soon!  in  that  enchanting  strain, 

Days  yet  unlived,  I  almost  lived  again: 

It  almost  taught  me  that  I  most  would  know — 

Why  am  I  here,  and  why  am  I  Pierrot? 
[Absently  he  picks  up  a  lily  which  has  fallen  to  the  ground, 

and  repeats.] 

Why  came  I  here,  and  why  am  I  Pierrot? 

That  music  and  this  silence  both  affright; 

Pierrot  can  never  be  a  friend  of  night. 

I  never  felt  my  solitude  before — 

Once  safe  at  home,  I  will  return  no  more. 

Yet  the  commandment  of  the  scroll  was  plain; 

While  the  light  lingers  let  me  read  again. 
[He  takes  a  scroll  from  his  bosom  and  reads.] 

"  He  loves  to-night  who  never  loved  before; 

Who  ever  loved,  to-night  shall  love  once  more.'* 

I  never  loved!     I  know  not  what  love  is. 

I  am  so  ignorant — but  what  is  this? 

[Reads.] 

"  Who  would  adventure  to  encounter  hove 

Must  rest  one  night  within  this  hallowed  grove. 

Cast  down  thy  lilies,  which  have  led  thee  on. 

Before  the  tender  feet  of  Cupidon." 

Thus  much  is  done,  the  night  remains  to  me. 

Well,  Cupidon,  be  my  security! 

Here  is  more  writing,  but  too  faint  to  read. 
[He  puzzles  for  a  moment,  then  casts  the  scroll  down.] 

Hence,  vain  old  parchment.     I  have  learnt  thy  rede! 
[He  looks  round  uneasily,  starts  at  his  shadow;  then  dis- 
covers his  basket  with  glee.    He  takes  out  a  flask  of  wine, 

pours  it  into  a  glass,  and  drinks.] 

Courage,  mon  Ami!     I  shall  never  miss 

Society  with  such  a  friend   as  this. 

How  merrily  the  rosy  bubbles  pass, 

Across  the  amber  crystal  of  the  glass. 

I  had  forgotten  you.     Methinks  this  quest 

Can  wake  no  sweeter  echo  in  my  breast. 

[Looks  round  at  the  sta-tue,  and  starts.] 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE  57 

Nay,  little  god!  forgive.     I  did  but  jest. 
[He  fills  another  glass,  and  pours  it  upon  the  statue. \ 

This  libation,  Cupid,  take. 

With  the  lilies  at  thy  feet; 
Cherish  Pierrot  for  their  sake. 

Send  him  visions  strange  and  sweet, 
While  he  slumbers  at  thy  feet. 

Only  love  kiss  him  awake! 
Only  love  kiss  him  awake! 

[Slowly  falls  the  darkness,  soft  music  plays,  while  Pierrot 
gathers  together  fern  and  foliage  into  a  rough  couch  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  which  lead  to  the  Temple  d' Amour.  Then 
he  lies  down  upon  it,  having  made  his  prayer.  It  is  night. 
He  speaks  softly.] 

Music,  more  music,  far  away  and  faint: 
It  is  an  echo  of  mine  heart's  complaint. 
Why  should  I  be  so  musical  and  sad? 
I  wonder  why  I  used  to  be  so  glad? 
In  single  glee  I  chased  blue  butterflies, 
Half  butterfly  myself,  but  not  so  wise. 
For  they  were  twain,  and  I  was  only  one. 
Ah  me!  how  pitiful  to  be  alone. 
My  brown  birds  told  me  much,  but  in  mine  ear 
They  never  whispered  this — I  learned  it  here: 
The  soft  wood  sounds,  the  rustlings  in  the  breeze, 
Are  but  the  stealthy  kisses  of  the  trees. 
Each  flower  and  fern  in  this  enchanted  wood 
Leans  to  her  fellow,  and  is  understood; 
The  eglantine,  in  loftier  station  set. 
Stoops  down  to  woo  the  maidly  violet. 
In  gracile  pairs  the  very  lilies  grow: 
None  is  companionless  except  Pierrot. 
Music,  more  music!  how  its  echoes  steal 
Upon  my  senses  with  unlooked  for  weal. 
Tired  am  I,  tired,  and  far  from  this  lone  glade 
Seems  mine  old  joy  in  rout  and  masquerade. 
Sleep  Cometh  over  me,  now  will  I  prove, 
By  Cupid's  grace,  what  is  this  thing  called  love. 

[Sleeps.] 
[There  is  more  music  of  lutes  for  an  interval,  during  which 


58  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

a  bright  radiance,  tvhite  and  cold,  streams  from  the  temple 
upon  the  face  of  Pierrot.  Presently  a  Moon  Maiden 
steps  out  of  the  temple;  she  descends  and  stands  over  the 
sleeper.] 

The  Lady. 

Who  is  this  mortal 

Who  ventures  to-night 
To  woo   an   immortal? 

Cold,  cold  the  moon's  light, 
For  sleep  at  this  portal, 

Bold  lover  of  night. 
Fair  is  the  mortal 

In  soft,  silken  white, 
Who  seeks  an  immortal. 

Ah,  lover  of  night. 
Be  warned  at  the  portal. 

And  save  thee  in  flight! 

[She  stoops  over  him:  Pierrot  stirs  in  his  sleep.] 

Pierrot   [murfnuring]. 

Forget  not,  Cupid.     Teach  me  all  thy  lore: 
"  He  loves  to-night  who  never  loved  before." 

The  Lady. 

Unwitting  boy!  when,  be  it  soon  or  late. 

What  Pierrot  ever  has  escaped  his  fate? 

What  if  I  warned  him!     He  might  yet  evade. 

Through  the  long  windings  of  this  verdant  glade; 

Seek  his  companions  in  the  blither  way. 

Which,  else,  must  be  as  lost  as  yesterday. 

So  might  he  still  pass  some  unheeding  hours 

In  the  sweet  company  of  birds  and  flowers. 

How  fair  he  is,  with  red  lips  formed  for  joy, 

As  softly  curved  as  those  of  Venus'  boy. 

Methinks  his  eyes,  beneath  their  silver  sheaves. 

Rest  tranquilly  like  lilies  under  leaves. 

Arrayed  in  innocence,  what  touch  of  grace 

Reveals  the  scion  of  a  courtly  race? 

Well,  I  will  warn  him,  though,  I  fear,  too  late — 

What  Pierrot  ever  has  escaped  his  fate? 

But,  see,  he  stirs,  new  knowledge  fires  his  brain, 

And  Cupid's  vision  bids  him  wake  again. 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE  59 

Dione's  Daughter!  but  how  fair  he  is, 

Would  it  be  wrong  to  rouse  him  with  a  kiss? 
[She  stoops  down  and  kisses  him,  then  withdraws  into  the 

shadow.] 
Pierrot   \rubbing  his  eyes]. 

Celestial  messenger !  remain,  remain ; 

Or,  if  a  vision,  visit  me  again! 

What  is  this  light,  and  whither  am  I  come 

To  sleep  beneath  the  stars  so  far  from  home? 
{Rises  slowly  to  his  feet.] 

Stay,  I  remember  this  is  Venus'  Grove, 

And  I  am  hither  come  to  encounter 

The  Lady  [coming  forward,  but  veiled]. 

Love! 
Pierrot  [in  ecstasy,  throwing  himself  at  her  feet]. 

Then  have  I  ventured  and  encountered  Love? 
The  Lady. 

Not  yet,  rash  boy!  and,  if  thou  wouldst  be  wise, 

Return  unknowing;  he  is  safe  who  flies. 
Pierrot. 

Never,  sweet  lady,  will  I  leave  this  place 

Until  I  see  the  wonder  of  thy  face. 

Goddess  or  Naiad!  lady  of  this  Grove, 

Made  mortal  for  a  night  to  teach  me  love, 

Unveil  thyself,  although  thy  beauty  be 

Too  luminous  for  my  mortality. 
The  Lady  [unveiling]. 

Then,  foolish  boy,  receive  at  length  thy  will: 

Now  knowest  thou  the  greatness  of  thine  ill. 
Pierrot. 

Now  have  I  lost  my  heart,  and  gained  my  goal. 
The  Lady. 

Didst  thou  not  read  the  warning  on  the  scroll? 
[Picks  up  the  parchment.] 
Pierrot. 

I  read  it  all,  as  on  this  quest  I  fared. 

Save  where  it  was  illegible  and  hard. 
The  Lady. 

Alack!  poor  scholar,  wast  thou  never  taught 

A  little  knowledge  serveth  less  than  naught? 


6o  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

Hadst  thou  perused  but,  stay,  I  will  explain 

What  was  the  writing  which  thou  didst  disdain. 

[Reads.] 
*'  Au  Petit  Trianon,  at  night's  full  noon, 
Mortal,  beware  the  kisses  of  the  moon! 
Whoso  seeks  her  she  gathers  like  a  flower — 
He  gives  a  life,  and  only  gains  an  hour." 
Pierrot   [laughing  recklessly]. 

Bear  me  away  to  thine  enchanted  bower, 
All  of  my  life  I  venture  for  an  hour. 
The  Lady. 

Take  up  thy  destiny  of  short  delight; 
I  am  thy  lady  for  a  summer's  night. 
Lift  up  your  viols,  maidens  of  my  train. 
And  work  such  havoc  on  this  mortal's  brain 
That  for  a  moment  he  may  touch  and  know 
Immortal  things,  and  be  full  Pierrot. 
White  music.  Nymphs!   Violet  and  Eglantine! 
To  stir  his  tired  veins  like  magic  wine. 
What  visitants  across  his  spirit  glance. 
Lying  on  lilies,  while  he  watch  me  dance? 
Watch,  and  forget  all  weary  things  of  earth. 
All  memories  and  cares,  all  joy  and  mirth, 
While  my  dance  woos  him,  light  and  rhythmical, 
And  weaves  his  heart  into  my  coronal. 
Music,  more  music  for  his  soul's  delight; 
Love  is  his  lady  for  a  summer's  night. 
[Pierrot  reclines,  and  gazes  at  her  while  she  dances.     The 
dance  finished,  she  beckons  to  him:  he  rises  dreamily,  and 
stands  at  her  side.] 
Pierrot. 

Whence  came,  dear  Queen,  such  magic  melody? 
The  Lady. 

Pan  made  it  long  ago  in  Arcady. 
Pierrot. 

I  heard  it  long  ago,  I  know  not  where. 

As  I  knew  thee,  or  ever  I  came  here. 

But  I  forget  all  things — my  name  and  race 

All  that  I  ever  knew  except  thy  face. 

Who  art  thou,  lady?    Breathe  a  name  to  me. 

That  I  may  tell  it  like  a  rosary. 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE  6i 

Thou,  whom  I  sought,  dear  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

How  art  thou  designate — art  thou  Heart's-Ease  ? 
The  Lady. 

Waste  not  the  night  in  idle  questioning. 

Since  Love  departs  at  dawn's  awakening. 
Pierrot. 

Nay,  thou  art  right;  what  recks  thy  name  or  state, 

Since  thou  art  lovely  and  compassionate. 

Play  out  thy  will  on  me:  I  am  thy  lyre. 
The  Lady. 

I  am  to  each  the  face  of  his  desire. 
Pierrot. 

I  am  not  Pierrot,  but  Venus'  dove. 

Who  craves  a  refuge  on  the  breast  of  love. 
The  Lady. 

What  wouldst  thou  of  the  maiden  of  the  moon? 

Until  the  cock  crow  I  may  grant  thy  boon. 
Pierrot. 

Then,  sweet  Moon  Maiden,  in  some  magic  car, 

Wrought  wondrously  of  many  a  homeless  star — 

Such  must  attend  thy  journeys  through  the  skies,—- 

Drawn  by  a  team  of  milk-white  butterflies. 

Whom,  with  soft  voice  and  music  of  thy  maids, 

Thou  urgest  gently  through  the  heavenly  glades; 

Mount  me  beside  thee,  bear  me  far  away 

From  the  low  regions  of  the  solar  day; 

Over  the  rainbow,  up  into  the  moon. 

Where  is  thy  palace  and  thine  opal  throne; 

There  on  thy  bosom 

The  Lady. 

Too  ambitious  boy! 

I  did  but  promise  thee  one  hour  of  joy. 

This  tour  thou  plannest,  with  a  heart  so  light, 

Could  hardly  be  completed  in  a  night. 

Hast  thou  no  craving  less  remote  than  this? 
Pierrot. 

Would  it  be  impudent  to  beg  a  kiss? 
The  Lady. 

I  say  not  that:  yet  prithee  have  a  care! 

Often  audacity  has  proved  a  snare. 


62  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

How  wan  and  pale  do  moon-kissed  roses  grow — 

Dost  thou  not  fear  my  kisses,  Pierrot? 
Pierrot. 

As  one  who  faints  upon  the  Libyan  plain 

Fears  the  oasis  which  brings  life  again! 
The  Lady. 

Where  far  away  green  palm  trees  seem  to  stand 

May  be  a  mirage  of  the  wreathing  sand. 
Pierrot. 

Nay,  dear  enchantress,  I  consider  naught, 

Save  mine  own  ignorance,  which  would  be  taught. 
The  Lady. 

Dost  thou  persist? 
Pierrot. 

I  do  entreat  this  boon! 
[She  bends  forward,  their  lips  meet:  she  withdraws  with  a 

petulant  shiver.    She  utters  a  peal  of  clear  laughter.^ 
The  Lady. 

Why  art  thou  pale,  fond  lover  of  the  moon? 
Pierrot. 

Cold  are  thy  lips,  more  cold  than  I  can  tell; 

Yet  would  I  hang  on  them,  thine  icicle! 

Cold  is  thy  kiss,  more  cold  than  I  could  dream 

Arctus  sits,  watching  the  Boreal  stream: 

But  with  its  frost  such  sweetness  did  conspire 

That  all  my  veins  are  filled  with  running  fire; 

Never  I  knew  that  life  contained  such  bliss 

As  the  divine  completeness  of  a  kiss. 
The  Lady. 

Apt  scholar!  so  love's  lesson  has  been  taught, 

Warning,  as  usual,  has  gone  for  naught. 
Pierrot. 

Had  all  my  schooling  been  of  this  soft  kind, 

To  play  the  truant  I  were  less  inclined. 

Teach  me  again!     I  am  a  sorry  dunce — 

I  never  knew  a  task  by  conning  once. 
The  Lady. 

Then  come  with  me!  below  this  pleasant  shrine 

Of  Venus  we  will  presently  recline, 

Until  birds'  twitter  beckon  me  away 

To  my  Own  home,  beyond  the  milky-way. 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE  63 

I  will  instruct  thee,  for  I  deem  as  yet 
Of  Love  thou  knowest  but  the  alphabet. 

Pierrot. 

In  its  sweet  grammar  I  shall  grow  most  wise, 

If  all  its  rules  be  written  in  thine  eyes. 
[The  Lady  sits  upon  a  step  of  the  temple^  and  PlERROT 

leans  upon  his  elbow  at  her  feet,  regarding  her.\ 

Sweet  contemplation!  how  my  senses  yearn 

To  be  thy  scholar  always,  always  learn. 

Hold  not  so  high  from  me  thy  radiant  mouth, 

Fragrant  with  all  the  spices  of  the  South ; 

Nor  turn,  O  sweet!  thy  golden  face  away, 

For  with  it  goes  the  light  of  all  my  day. 

Let  me  peruse  it,  till  I  know  by  rote 

Each  line  of  it,  like  music,  note  by  note; 

Raise  thy  long  lashes,  Lady!  smile  again: 

These  studies  profit  me. 

[^Takes  her  hand.] 

The  Lady. 

Refrain,  refrain! 
Pierrot  [with  passion]. 

I  am  but  studious,  so  do  not  stir; 
Thou  art  my  star,  I  thine  astronomer! 
Geometry  was  founded  on  thy  lip. 
[Kisses  her  hand.] 

The  Lady. 

This  attitude  becomes  not  scholarship! 
Thy  zeal  I  praise ;  but,  prithee,  not  so  fast, 
Nor  leave  the  rudiments  until  the  last. 
Science  applied  is  good,  but  'twere  a  schism 
To  study  such  before  the  catechism. 
Bear  thee  more  modestly,  while  I  submit 
Some  easy  problems  to  confirm  thy  wit. 

Pierrot. 

In  all  humility  my  mind  I  pit 

Against  her  problems  which  would  test  my  wit. 

The  Lady   [questioning  him  from  a  little  book  bound  de- 
liciously  in  vellum]. 

What  is  Love? 
Is  it  a  folly, 


64  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

Is  it  mirth,  or  melancholy? 

Joys  above, 
Are  there  many,  or  not  any? 
What  is  love? 
Pierrot   [answerinff  in  a  very  humble  attitude  of  scholar- 
ship]. 

If  you  please, 
A  most  sweet  folly! 
Full  of  mirth  and  melancholy: 

Both  of  these! 
In  its  sadness  worth  all  gladness, 
If  you  please! 
The  Lady. 

Prithee  where, 
Goes  Love  a-hiding? 
Is  he  long  in  his  abiding 

Anywhere  ? 
Can  you  bind  him  when  you  find  him; 
Prithee,  where? 
Pierrot. 

With  spring  days 
Love  comes  and  dallies: 
Upon  the  mountains,  through  the  valleys 

Lie  Love's  ways. 
Then  he  leaves  you  and  deceives  you 
In  spring  days. 
The  Lady. 

Thine  answers  please  me:  'tis  thy  turn  to  ask. 
To  meet  thy  questioning  be  now  my  task. 
Pierrot. 

Since  I  know  thee,  dear  Immortal, 
Is  my  heart  become  a  blossom, 
To  be  worn  upon  thy  bosom. 
When  thou  turn  me  from  this  portal, 
Whither  shall  I,  hapless  mortal. 
Seek  love  out  and  win  again 
Heart  of  me  that  thou  retain? 
The  Lady, 

In  and  out  the  woods  and  valleys, 
Circling,  soaring  like  a  swallow. 
Love  shall  flee  and  thou  shalt  follow: 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE  65 

Though  he  stops  awhile  and  dallies, 
Never  shalt  thou  stay  his  malice! 
Moon-kissed  mortals  seek  in  vain 
To  possess  their  hearts  again! 
Pierrot. 

Tell  me,  Lady,  shall  I  never 
Rid  me  of  this  grievous  burden? 
Follow  Love  and  find  his  guerdon 
In  no  maiden  whatsoever? 
Wilt  thou  hold  my  heart  for  ever? 
Rather  would  I  thine  forget, 
In  some  earthly  Pierrette! 

The  Lady. 

Thus  thy  fate,  what'er  thy  will  is! 
Moon-struck  child,  go  seek  my  traces 
Vainly  in  all  mortal  faces! 
In  and  out  among  the  lilies. 
Court  each  rural  Amaryllis: 
Seek  the  signet  of  Love's  hand 
In  each  courtly  Corisande! 
Pierrot. 

Now,  verily,  sweet  maid,  of  school  I  tire: 
These  answers  are  not  such  as  I  desire. 
The  Lady. 

Why  art  thou  sad  ? 
Pierrot. 

I  dare  not  tell. 
The  Lady  [caressingly]. 

Come,  say! 

Pierrot. 

Is  love  all  schooling,  with  no  time  to  play? 

The  Lady. 

Though  all  love's  lessons  be  a  holiday, 

Yet  I  will  humor  thee:  what  wouldst  thou  play? 

Pierrot. 

What  are  the  games  that  small  moon-maids  enjoy, 
Or  is  their  time  all  spent  in  staid  employ? 

The  Lady. 

Sedate  they  are,  yet  games  they  much  enjoy: 
They  skip  with  stars,  the  rainbow  is  their  toy. 


66  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

Pierrot. 

That  is  too  hard! 
The  Lady. 

For  mortal's  play. 

Pierrot. 

What  then? 

The  Lady. 

Teach  me  some  pastime  from  the  world  of  men. 
Pierrot. 

I  have  it,  maiden. 
The  Lady. 

Can  it  soon  be  taught? 

Pierrot. 

A  single  game,  I  learnt  it  at  the  Court. 

I  sit  by  thee. 
The  Lady. 

But,  prithee,  not  so  near. 
Pierrot. 

That  is  essential,  as  will  soon  appear. 

Lay  here  thine  hand,  which  cold  night  dews  anoint, 

Washing  its  white 

The  Lady. 

Now  is  this  to  the  point? 

Pierrot. 

Prithee,  forebear!     Such  is  the  gime's  design. 
The  Lady. 

Here  is  my  hand. 
Pierrot. 

I  cover  it  with  mine. 

The  Lady. 

What  must  I  next? 

[They  play.] 

Pierrot. 

Withdraw. 

The  Lady. 

It  goes  too  fast. 

[They  continue  playing,  until  Pierrot  catches  her  hand.] 
Pierrot  [laughing], 

'Tis  done.     I  win  my  forfeit  at  the  last. 
[He  tries  to  embrace  her.    She  escapes;  he  chases  her  round 

the  stage;  she  eludes  him.] 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE  67 

The  Lady. 

Thou  art  not  quick  enough.    Who  hopes  to  catch 

A  moon-beam,  must  use  twice  as  much  despatch. 
Pierrot  {sitting  down  sulkily]. 

I  grow  aweary,  and  my  heart  is  sore. 

Thou  dost  not  love  me;  I  will  play  no  more. 
[He  buries  his  face  in  his  hands.    The  Lady  stands  over  him.] 
The  Lady. 

What  is  this  petulance? 
Pierrot. 

'Tis  quick  to  tell — 

Thou  hast  but  mocked  me. 
The  Lady. 

Nay!  I  love  thee  well! 
Pierrot. 

Repeat  those  words,  for  still  within  my  breast 

A  whisper  warns  me  they  are  said  in  jest. 
The  Lady. 

I  jested  not:  at  daybreak  I  must  go, 

Yet  loving  thee  far  better  than  thou  know. 
Pierrot. 

Then,  by  this  altar,  and  this  sacred  shrine. 

Take  my  sworn  troth,  and  swear  thee  wholly  mine! 

The  gods  have  wedded  mortals  long  ere  this. 
The  Lady. 

There  was  enough  betrothal  in  my  kiss. 

What  need  of  further  oaths? 
Pierrot. 

That  bound  not  thee! 
The  Lady. 

Peace!  since  I  tell  thee  that  it  may  not  be. 

But  sit  beside  me  whilst  I  soothe  thy  bale 

With  some  moon  fancy  or  celestial  tale. 
Pierrot. 

Tell  me  of  thee,  and  that  dim,  happy  place 

Where  lies  thine  home,  with  maidens  of  thy  race! 
The  Lady  [seating  herself]. 

Calm  is  it  yonder,  very  calm ;  the  air 

For  mortals'  breath  is  too  refined  and  rare; 

Hard  by  a  green  lagoon  our  palace  rears 

Its  dome  of  agate  through  a  myriad  years. 


68  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

A  hundred  chambers  its  bright  walls  enthrone, 

Each  one  carved  strangely  from  a  precious  stone. 

Within  the  fairest,  clad  in  purity, 

Our  mother  dwelleth  immemorially: 

Moon-calm,  moon-pale,  with  moon  stones  on  her  gown, 

The  floor  she  treads  with  little  pearls  is  sown; 

She  sits  upon  a  throne  of  amethysts, 

And  orders  mortal  fortunes  as  she  lists; 

I,  and  my  sisters,  all  around  her  stand, 

And,  when  she  speaks,  accomplish  her  demand. 

Pierrot. 

Methought  grim  Clotho  and  her  sisters  twain 
With  shriveled  fingers  spun  this  web  of  bane! 

The  Lady. 

Theirs  and  my  mother's  realm  is  far  apart; 
Hers  is  the  lustrous  kingdom  of  the  heart, 
And  dreamers  all,  and  all  who  sing  and  love, 
Her  power  acknowledge,  and  her  rule  approve. 

Pierrot. 

Me,  even  me,  she  hath  led  into  this  grove. 

The  Lady. 

Yea,  thou  art  one  of  hers!     But,  ere  this  night, 
Often  I  watched  my  sisters  take  their  flight 
Down  heaven's  stairway  of  the  clustered  stars 
To  gaze  on  mortals  through  their  lattice  bars; 
And  some  in  sleep  they  woo  with  dreams  of  bliss 
Too  shadowy  to  tell,  and  some  they  kiss. 
But  all  to  whom  they  come,  my  sisters  say, 
Forthwith  forget  all  joyance  of  the  day, 
Forget  their  laughter  and  forget  their  tears. 
And  dream  away  with  singing  all  their  years — 
Moon-lovers  always! 

[She  siffhs.] 

Pierrot. 

Why  art  sad,  sweet  Moon? 
[Laughs.] 

The  Lady. 

For  this,  my  story,  grant  me  now  a  boon. 

Pierrot. 

I  am  thy  servitor. 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE  69 

The  Lady. 

Would,  then,  I  knew 

More  of  the  earth,  what  men  and  women  do. 
Pierrot. 

I  will  explain. 
The  Lady. 

Let  brevity  attend 

Thy  wit,  for  night  approaches  to  its  end. 
Pierrot. 

Once  was  I  a  page  at  Court,  so  trust  in  me: 

That's  the  first  lesson  of  society. 
The  Lady. 

Society? 
Pierrot. 

I  mean  the  very  best. 

Pardy!  thou  wouldst  not  hear  about  the  rest. 

I  know  it  not,  but  am  a  petit  maitre 

At  rout  and  festival  and  bal  champetre. 

But  since  example  be  instruction's  ease. 

Let's  play  the  thing. — Now,  Madame,  if  you  please! 
{He  helps  her  to  rise,  and  leads  her  forward:  then  he  kisses 

her  hand,  bowing  over  it  with  a  very  courtly  air.\ 
The  Lady. 

What  am  I,  then? 
Pierrot. 

A  most  divine  Marquise! 

Perhaps  that  attitude  hath  too  much  ease. 

{Passes  her.] 

Ah,  that  is  better!    To  complete  the  plan, 

Nothing  is  necessary  save  a  fan. 
The  Lady. 

Cool  is  the  night,  what  needs  it? 
Pierrot. 

Madame,  pray 

Reflect,  it  is  essential  to  our  play. 
The  Lady  [taking  a  lily'\. 

Here  is  my  fan! 
Pierrot. 

So,  use  it  with  intent: 

The  deadliest  arm  in  beauty's  armament! 


70  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

The  Lady. 

What  do  we  next? 
Pierrot. 

We  talk! 
The  Lady. 

But  what  about? 
Pierrot. 

We  quiz  the  company  and  praise  the  rout;  ' 

Are  polished,  petulant,  malicious,  sly, 

Or  what  you  will,  so  reputations  die. 

Observe  the  Duchess  in  Venetian  lace, 

With  the  red  eminence. 
The  Lady. 

A  pretty  face! 
Pierrot. 

For  something  tarter  set  thy  wits  to  search — 

"  She  loves  the  churchman  better  than  the  church." 
The  Lady. 

Her  blush  is  charming;  would  it  were  her  own! 
Pierrot. 

Madame  is  merciless! 
The  Lady. 

Is  that  the  tone? 
Pierrot. 

The  very  tone:  I  swear  thou  lackest  naught. 

Madame  was  evidently  bred  at  Court. 
The  Lady. 

Thou  speakest  glibly:  'tis  not  of  thine  age. 
Pierrot. 

I  listened  much,  as  best  becomes  a  page. 
The  Lady. 

I  like  thy  Court  but  little 

Pierrot. 

Hush!  the  Queen! 

Bow,  but  not  low — thou  knowest  what  I  mean. 
The  Lady. 

Nay,  that  I  know  not! 
Pierrot. 

Though  she  wear  a  crown, 

'Tis  from  La  Pompadour  one  fears  a  frown. 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE  71 

The  Lady. 

Thou  art  a  child :  thy  malice  is  a  game. 
Pierrot. 

A  most  sweet  pastime — scandal  is  its  name. 
The  Lady. 

Enough,  it  wearies  me. 
Pierrot. 

Then,  rare  Marquise, 

Desert  the  crowd  to  wander  through  the  trees. 
[He  bows  low,  and  she  curtsies;  they  move  round  the  stage. 

When  they  pass  before  the  Statue  he  seizes  her  hand  and 

falls  on  his  knee.] 
The  Lady. 

What  wouldst  thou  now? 
Pierrot. 

Ah,  prithee,  what,  save  thee! 
The  Lady. 

Was  this  included  in  thy  comedy? 
Pierrot. 

Ah,  mock  me  not!     In  vain  with  quirk  and  jest 

I  strive  to  quench  the  passion  in  my  breast; 

In  vain  thy  blandishments  would  make  me  play: 

Still  I  desire  far  more  than  I  can  say. 

My  knowledge  halts,  ah,  sweet,  be  piteous. 

Instruct  me  still,  while  time  remains  to  us, 

Be  what  thou  wist,  Goddess,  moon-maid.  Marquise, 

So  that  I  gather  from  thy  lips  heart's  ease. 

Nay,  I  implore  thee,  think  thee  how  time  flies! 
The  Lady. 

Hush!     I  beseech  thee,  even  now  night  dies. 
Pierrot. 

Night,  day,  are  one  to  me  for  thy  soft  sake. 
[He  entreats  her  with  imploring  gestures,  she  hesitates:  then 

puts  her  finger  on  her  lip,  hushing  him.] 
The  Lady. 

It  is  too  late,  for  hark!  the  birds  awake. 
Pierrot. 

The  birds  awake !     It  is  the  voice  of  day ! 
The  Lady. 

Farewell,  dear  youth!     They  summon  me  away. 
[The  light  changes,  it  grows  daylight:  and  music  imitates  the 


72  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

twitter  of  the  birds.     They  stand  gazing  at  the  morning: 

then  Pierrot  sinks  back  upon  his  bed,  he  covers  his  face 

in  his  hands. \ 
The  Lady  [bending  over  hi?}i]. 

Music,  my  maids!     His  weary  senses  steep 

In  soft  untroubled  and  oblivious  sleep, 

With  Mandragore  anoint  his  tired  eyes, 

That  they  may  open  on  mere  memories, 

Then  shall  a  vision  seem  his  lost  delight, 

With  love,  his  lady  for  a  summer's  night. 

Dream  thou  hast  dreamt  all  this,  when  thou  awake, 

Yet  still  be  sorrowful,  for  a  dream's  sake. 

I  leave  thee,  sleeper!     Yea,  I  leave  thee  now, 

Yet  take  my  legacy  upon  thy  brow: 

Remember  me,  who  was  compassionate, 

And  opened  for  thee  once,  the  ivory  gate. 

I  come  no  more,  thou  shalt  not  see  my  face 

When  I  am  gone  to  mine  exalted  place: 

Yet  all  thy  days  are  mine,  dreamer  of  dreams, 

All  silvered  over  with  the  moon's  pale  beams: 

Go  forth  and  seek  in  each  fair  face  in  vain, 

To  find  the  image  of  thy  love  again. 

All  maids  are  kind  to  thee,  yet  never  one 

Shall  hold  thy  truant  heart  till  day  be  done. 

Whom  once  the  moon  has  kissed,  loves  long  and  late, 

Yet  never  finds  the  maid  to  be  his  mate. 

Farewell,  dear  sleeper,  follow  out  thy  fate. 
[The  Moon  Maiden  withdraws:  a  song  is  sung  from  be- 
hind: it  is  full  day.] 

The  Moon  Maiden's  Song 

Sleep!    Cast  thy  canopy 

Over  this  sleeper's  brain. 
Dim  grow  his  memory. 

When  he  awake  again. 

Love  stays  a  summer  night, 

Till  lights  of  morning  come; 
Then  takes  her  winged  flight 

Back  to  her  starry  home. 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE  73 

Sleep!   Yet  thy  days  are  mine; 

Love's  seal  is  over  thee: 
Far  though  my  ways  from  thine, 

Dim  though  thy  memory. 

Love  stays  a  summer  night, 

Till  lights  of  morning  come; 
Then  takes  her  winged  flight 

Back  to  her  starry  home. 

[When  the  song  is  finished,  the  curtain  falls  upon  PlERROT 
sleeping.  ] 

EPILOGUE 

[Spoken  in  the  character  of  Pierrot] 

The  sun  is  up,  yet  ere  a  body  stirs, 

A  word  with  you,  sweet  ladies  and  dear  sirs, 

{Although  on  no  account  let  any  say 

That  Pierrot  finished  Mr.  Dowsons  play). 

One  night  not  long  ago,  at  Baden  Baden, — 

The  birthday  of  the  Duke, — his  pleasure  garden 

Was  lighted  gaily  with  feu  d'artifice, 

With  candles,  rockets,  and  a  center-piece 

Above  the  conversation  house,  on  high, 

Outlined  in  living  fire  against  the  sky, 

A  glittering  Pierrot,  radiant,  white. 

Whose  heart  beat  fast,  who  danced  with  sheer  delight^ 

Whose  eyes  were  blue,  whose  lips  were  rosy  red, 

Whose  pompons  too  were  fire,  while  on  his  head 

He  wore  a  little  cap,  and  I  am  told 

That  rockets  covered  him  with  showers  of  gold. 

"  Take  our  applause,  you  well  deserve  to  win  it," 

They  cried:  "Bravo!  the  Pierrot  of  the  minute!" 

What  with  applause  and  gold,  one  must  confess 

That  Pierrot  had  "  arrived"  achieved  success. 

When,  as  it  happened,  presently,  alas! 

A  terrible  disaster  came  to  pass. 

His  nose  grew  dim,  the  people  gave  a  shout. 


74  THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

His  red  lips  paled,  both  his  blue  eyes  went  out. 

There  rose  a  sullen  sound  of  discontent. 

The  golden  shower  of  rockets  was  all  spent; 

He  left  off  dancing  with  a  sudden  jerk. 

For  he  luas  nothing  but  a  firework. 

The  garden  darkened  and  the  people  in  it 

Cried,  "He  is  dead, — the  Pierrot  of  the  minute! 

With  every  artist  it  is  even  so; 

The  artist,  after  all,  is  a  Pierrot — 

A  Pierrot  of  the  minute,  naif,  clever. 

But  Art  is  back  of  him.  She  lives  for  ever! 

Then  pardon  my  Moon  Maid  and  me,  because 
We  craved  the  golden  shower  of  your  applause! 
Pray  shrive  us  both  for  having  tried  to  ivin  it. 
And  cry,  "Bravo!    The  Pierrot  of  the  minute!" 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  * 

A  FANTASY  IN  ONE  ACT 

By 
OLIPHANT  DOWN 


*  Copyright,  Feb.  i,  1913,  in  the  United  States  by  Oliphant  Down. 
Reprinted  by  special  arrangement  with  Gowans  &  Gray,  Ltd.,  Glasgow. 

Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby  warned  that  this  play  is 
fully  copyrighted  under  the  existing  laws  of  the  United  States,  and  no 
one  is  allowed  to  produce  this  play  without  first  having  obtained  per- 
iiission  of  Samuel  French,  28  West  38  Street,  New  York. 


The  Maker  of  Dreams  by  the  late  Oliphant  Down  was  first 
given  at  the  Royalty  Theatre  in  Glasgow,  November  20,  191 1. 
The  design  for  the  setting  here  reproduced  was  used  when  the 
play  was  acted  in  March,  19 15,  at  The  Neighborhood  Play- 
house in  New  York.  The  picture  does  not  show  how  touches 
of  red  here  and  there  in  the  scene,  and  the  brilliant  blue  sky, 
visible  through  the  quaint  windows,  enhanced  the  character  of 
the  black  and  white  of  the  walls  and  of  the  flower  pots.  The 
back  wall  of  the  set  was  mounted  on  casters  and,  while 
Pierrette  slept,  moved  silently  off  stage,  to  disclose  to  the  audi- 
ence a  formal  garden  at  the  back,  where  a  miniature  Pierrot 
and  a  tiny  Pierrette  did  a  joyous  little  dance,  thus  suggesting 
to  the  spectators  Pierrette's  happy  dream. 

Pierrot,  the  hero  of  this  and  of  the  preceding  play,  has  had 
an  interesting  stage  history.  To  understand  him  fully  we  have 
to  go  back  to  the  comedy  of  masks  that  had  fully  developed  in 
Italy  by  the  time  of  the  Renascence.  This  comedy  was  a  special 
kind  of  play,  the  scenario  of  which  only  was  written,  the  dia- 
logue being  improvised  by  the  individual  players.  Each  player 
wore  a  costume  and  a  mask  that  never  changed,  and  these  fixed 
his  identity.  Most  of  the  parts  had  a  strong  local  flavor,  the 
pedant,  for  example,  hailing  from  Bologna,  the  overly  shrewd 
merchant,  from  Venice.  Many  of  the  characters  have  become 
fixed  types  and  reappear  under  their  old  names  in  various  forms 
of  modern  drama.  Pantaloon,  Harlequin,  Columbine,  Punch 
and  Judy,  and  Pierrot  are  among  those  who  live  on  in  modern 
drama.  There  is  an  enchanting  play  by  Granville  Barker  and 
Dion  Clayton  Calthrop  called  The  Harlequinade,  that  describes 
in  a  popular  way  the  devious  and  uncertain  paths  traveled  by 
these  stock  characters  down  the  ages. 

Pierrot's  ancestry  is  not  so  clearly  Italian  as  the  others. 
Pedrolino,  a  mischievous,  intriguing  buffoon,  Pagliaccio,  a  mad- 
cap who  wore  a  painted  hat  of  white  wool  and  a  garment  of 
white  linen,  whose  face  was  covered  with  flour,  and  who  wore 
a  white  mask,  have  both  been  cited  as  types  that  may  have  con- 
tributed to  the  figure  of  Pierrot,  whose  name  makes  its  first 
appearance  in  Moliere's  play,  Don  Juan  ou  le  Festin  de  Pierre. 

77 


78  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

Not  that  this  dull  servant  of  Moliere's  is  in  any  sense  the 
counterpart  of  the  Pierrot  of  our  day  who  is  by  turns  languish- 
ing or  vivacious,  impish  or  poetic,  but  never  doltish.  From  the 
seventeenth  century,  Pierrot,  his  costume  borrowed  from  the 
Neapolitan  mask,  Pulcinella,  became  more  and  more  prominent 
on  both  the  Italian  and  the  French  stage.  It  was  a  certain 
French  pantomime  actor  by  the  name  of  Deburau  who  died  a 
few  years  before  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  who 
gave  Pierrot  the  prominence  that  he  enjoys  to-day  and  who 
dressed  the  character  in  the  guise  that  he  most  often  assumes 
on  the  modern  stage.  "  The  short  woolen  tunic,  with  its  great 
buttons  and  its  narrow  sleeves,  that  overhung  the  hands,  soon 
became  an  ample  calico  blouse  with  wide  long  sleeves  like  those 
of  the  Italian  Pagliaccio.  He  suppressed  the  collar,  which  cast 
an  upward  shadow  from  the  footlights  on  to  his  face,  and  in- 
terfered with  the  play  of  his  countenance,  and  instead  of  the 
white  skull-cap  of  his  predecessor,  he  emphasized  the  pallor  of 
his  face  by  framing  it  in  a  cap  of  black  velvet."  ^  The  Pierrot 
of  our  fancy  -  comes  to  us  also  through  the  pictures  of  Watteau 
and  Pater  and  the  designs  of  Aubrey  Beardsley. 

A  one-act  farce.  The  Quod  Wrangle,  is  the  only  other  pub- 
lished play  of  Oliphant  Down's.  Its  plot,  as  outlined  in  The 
London  Times  of  March  4,  1914,  reminds  one  strongly  of 
O.  Henry's  The  Cop  and  the  Anthem. 

*  Maurice  Sand,  The  History  of  the  Harlequinade,  London,  1915, 
Vol.  I,  p.  219. 

'  Mon  Ami  Pierrot.  Songs  and  Fantasies,  compiled  by  Kendall 
Banning,  Chicago,  1917.  This  book  presents  the  Pierrot  of  modern 
poetry  and  drama. 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

CHARACTERS 

Pierrot. 

Pierrette. 

The  Manufacturer. 

Evening.  A  room  in  an  old  cottage,  with  walls  of  dark  oak, 
lit  only  by  the  T?ioonlight  that  peers  through  the  long,  low 
casement-window  at  the  back,  and  the  glow  from  the  fire 
that  is  burning  merrily  on  the  spectator's  left.  A  cobbled 
street  can  be  seen  outside,  and  a  door  to  the  right  of  the 
window  opens  directly  on  to  it.  Opposite  the  fire  is  a 
kitchen  dresser  with  cups  arid  plates  twinkling  in  the  fire- 
light. A  high-backed  oak  settle,  as  though  afraid  of  the 
cold  moonlight,  has  turned  its  back  on  the  window  and 
warms  its  old  timbers  at  the  fire.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room  stands  a  table  with  a  red  cover;  there  are  chairs  on 
either  side  of  it.  On  the  hob,  a  kettle  is  keeping  itself 
warm;  whilst  overhead,  on  the  hood  of  the  chimney-piece, 
a  small  lamp  is  turned  very  low. 

A  figure  flits  past  the  window  and,  with  a  click  of  the  latch, 
Pierrette  enters.  She  hangs  up  her  cloak  by  the  door, 
gives  a  little  shiver  and  runs  to  warm  herself  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then,  having  turned  up  the  lamp,  she  places  the 
kettle  on  the  fire.  Crossing  the  room,  she  takes  a  table- 
cloth from  the  dresser  and  proceeds  to  lay  tea,  setting  out 
crockery  for  two.  Once  she  goes  to  the  window  and,  draw- 
ing aside  the  common  red  casement-curtains,  looks  out,  but 
returns  to  her  work,  disappointed.  She  puts  a  spoonful  of 
tea  into  the  teapot,  and  another,  and  a  third.  Something 
outside  attracts  her  attention;  she  listens,  her  face  bright- 
ening.    A  voice  is  heard  singing: 

79 


8o  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

"  Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon, 

She  is  caught  in  a  tangle  of  boughs; 
And  mellow  and  musical  June 

Is  saying  '  Good-night '  to  the  cows." 

[The  voice  draws  nearer  and  a  conical  white  hat  goes  past  the 
window.    Pierrot  enters.\ 

Pierrot  [throwing  his  hat  to  Pierrette].  Ugh!  How 
cold  it  is.     My  feet  are  like  ice. 

Pierrette.  Here  are  your  slippers.  I  put  them  down  to 
warm.  [She  kneels  beside  him,  as  he  sits  before  the  fire  and 
commences  to  slip  off  his  shoes.\ 

Pierrot  [singing:^ 

"  Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon. 

She  will  put  out  her  tongue  and  grimace ; 
And  mellow  and  musical  June 

Is  pinning  the  stars  in  their  place." 

Isn't  tea  ready  yet? 

Pierrette.    Nearly.    Only  waiting  for  the  kettle  to  boil. 

Pierrot.  How  cold  it  was  in  the  market-place  to-day!  I 
don't  believe  I  sang  at  all  well.     I  can't  sing  in  the  cold. 

Pierrette.  Ah,  you're  like  the  kettle.  He  can't  sing  when 
he's  cold  either.     Hurry  up,  Mr.  Kettle,  if  you  please. 

Pierrot.  I  wish  it  were  in  love  with  the  sound  of  its  own 
voice. 

Pierrette.  I  believe  it  is.  Now  it's  singing  like  a  bird. 
We'll  make  the  tea  with  the  nightingale's  tongue.  [She  pours 
the  boiling  water  into  the  teapot.]     Come  along. 

Pierrot  [looking  into  the  fire].  I  wonder.  She  had  beauty, 
she  had  form,  but  had  she  soul? 

Pierrette  [cutting  bread  and  butter  at  the  table].  Come 
and  be  cheerful,  instead  of  grumbling  there  to  the  fire. 

Pierrot.     I  was  thinking. 

Pierrette.  Come  and  have  tea.  When  you  sit  by  the  fire, 
thoughts  only  fly  up  the  chimney. 

Pierrot.  The  whole  world's  a  chimney-piece.  Give  people 
a  thing  as  worthless  as  paper,  and  it  catches  fire  in  them  and 
makes  a  stir ;  but  real  thought,  they  let  it  go  up  with  the  smoke. 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  8i 

Pierrette.  Cheer  up,  Pierrot.  See  how  thick  I've  spread 
the  butter. 

Pierrot.     You're  always  cheerful. 

Pierrette.     I  try  to  be  happy. 

Pierrot.  Ugh!  [He  has  moved  to  the  table.  There  is  a 
short  silence,  during  which  PlERROT  sips  his  tea  moodily.] 

Pierrette.    Tea  all  right? 

Pierrot.   Middling. 

Pierrette.     Only  middling!     I'll  pour  you  out  some  fresh. 

Pierrot.    Oh,  it's  all  right !     How  you  do  worry  a  fellow ! 

Pierrette.    Heigh-ho!    Shall  I  chain  up  that  big  black  dog? 

Pierrot.     I  say,  did  you  see  that  girl  to-day? 

Pierrette.    Whereabouts? 

Pierrot.  Standing  by  the  horse-trough.  With  a  fine  air, 
and  a  string  of  great  beads. 

Pierrette.    I  didn't  see  her. 

Pierrot.  I  did,  though.  And  she  saw  me.  Watched  me  all 
the  time  I  was  singing,  and  clapped  her  hands  like  anything 
each  time.  I  wonder  if  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  have  a 
soul  as  well  as  such  beautiful  coloring. 

Pierrette.     She  was  made  up! 

Pierrot.  I'm  sure  she  was  not.  And  how  do  you  know? 
You  didn't  see  her. 

Pierrette.    Perhaps  I  did  see  her. 

Pierrot.  Now,  look  here,  Pierrette,  it's  no  good  your  being 
jealous.  When  you  and  I  took  on  this  show  business,  we  ar- 
ranged to  be  just  partners  and  nothing  more.  If  I  see  anyone 
I  want  to  marry,  I  shall  marry  'em.  And  if  you  see  anyone 
who  wants  to  marry  you,  you  can  marry  'em. 

Pierrette.     I'm  not  jealous!    It's  absurd! 

Pierrot  [singing  abstractedly]. 

"  Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon. 

She  has  scratched  her  white  chin  on  the  gorse; 
And  mellow  and  musical  June 
Is  bringing  the  cuckoo  remorse." 

Pierrette.    Did  you  see  that  girl  after  the  show? 

Pierrot.  No.  She  had  slipped  away  in  the  crowd.  Here, 
I've  had  enough  tea.     I  shall  go  out  and  try  to  find  her. 

Pierrette.  Why  don't  you  stay  in  by  the  fire?  You  could 
help  me  to  darn  the  socks. 


82  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

Pierrot.  Don't  try  to  chaff  me.  Darning,  indeed !  I  hope 
life  has  got  something  better  in  it  than  darning. 

Pierrette.  I  doubt  it.  It's  pretty  much  the  same  all  the 
world  over.  First  we  wear  holes  in  our  socks,  and  then  we 
mend  them.  The  wise  ones  are  those  who  make  the  best  of  it, 
and  darn  as  well  as  they  can. 

Pierrot.    I  say,  that  gives  me  an  idea  for  a  song. 

Pierrette.    Out  with  it,  then. 

Pierrot.  Well,  I  haven't  exactly  formed  it  yet.  This  is 
what  flashed  through  my  mind  as  you  spoke:  [He  runs  up  on 
to  the  table,  using  it  as  a  stage. \ 

"  Life's  a  ball  of  worsted. 
Unwind  it  if  you  can. 
You  who  oft  have  boasted 

[He  pauses  for  a  moment,  then   hurriedly,  in   order   to  gloss 
over  the  false  accenting.] 

That  you  are  a  man." 

Of  course  that's  only  a  rough  idea. 

Pierrette.    Are  you  going  to  sing  it  at  the  show? 

Pierrot  [jumping  down  from  the  table].  You're  always  so 
lukewarm.  A  man  of  artistic  ideas  is  as  sensitively  skinned  as 
a  baby. 

Pierrette.    Do  stay  in,  Pierrot.    It's  so  cold  outside. 

Pierrot.  You  want  me  to  listen  to  you  grumbling,  I  suppose. 

Pierrette.    Just  now  you  said  I  was  always  cheerful. 

Pierrot.    There  you  are;  girding  at  me  again. 

Pierrette.  I'm  sorry,  Pierrot.  But  the  market-place  is 
dreadfully  wet,  and  your  shoes  are  awfully  thin. 

Pierrot.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  stop  in.  I'm  going  out  to 
find  that  girl.  How  do  I  know  she  isn't  the  very  woman  of 
my  dreams? 

Pierrette.  Why  are  you  always  trying  to  picture  an  ideal 
woman  ? 

Pierrot.    Don't  you  ever  picture  an  ideal  man? 

Pierrette.    No,  I  try  to  be  practical. 

Pierrot.  Women  are  so  unimaginative!  They  are  such 
pathetic,  motherly  things,  and  when  they  feel  extra  motherly 
they  say,  "  I'm  in  love."     All  that  is  so  sordid  and  petty.     I 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  83 

want  a  woman  I  can  set  on  a  pedestal,  and  just  look  up  at 
her  and  love  her. 

Pierrette  [speaking  very  fervently]. 

"  Pierrot,  don't  wait  for  the  moon, 

There's  a  heart  chilling  cold  in  her  rays; 
And  mellow  and  musical  June 
Will  only  last  thirty  short  days." 

Pierrot.  Oh,  I  should  never  make  you  understand !  Well, 
I'm  off.  [As  he  goes  out,  he  sings,  sidelong,  over  his  shoulder  in 
a  mocking  tone,  "Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon."  Pierrette 
listens  for  a  moment  to  his  voice  dying  away  in  the  distance. 
Then  she  moves  to  the  fire-place,  and  begins  to  stir  the  fire. 
As  she  kneels  there,  the  words  of  an  old  recitation  form  on  her 
lips.  Half  unconsciously  she  recites  it  again  to  an  audience  of 
laughing  flames  and  glowing,  thoughtful  coals.] 

"  There  lives  a  maid  in  the  big,  wide  world, 
By  the  crowded  town  and  mart. 
And  people  sigh  as  they  pass  her  by; 
They  call  her  Hungry  Heart. 

For  there  trembles  that  on  her  red  rose  lip 

That  never  her  tongue  can  say. 
And  her  eyes  are  sad,  and  she  is  not  glad 

In  the  beautiful  calm  of  day. 

Deep  down  in  the  waters  of  pure,  clear  thought, 

The  mate  of  her  fancy  lies; 
Sleeping,  the  night  is  made  fair  by  his  light 

Sweet  kiss  on  her  dreaming  eyes. 

Though  a  man  was  made  in  the  wells  of  time 

Who  could  set  her  soul  on  fire. 
Her  life  unwinds,  and  she  never  finds 

This  love  of  her  heart's  desire. 

If  you  meet  this  maid  of  a  hopeless  love, 

Play  not  a  meddler's  part. 
Silence  were  best;  let  her  keep  in  her  breast 

The  dream  of  her  hungry  heart." 


84  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

[Overcome  by  tearSj  she  hides  her  face  in  her  hands.  A  slow, 
treble  knock  comes  on  the  door;  Pierrette  looks  up  wonder- 
ingly.    Again  the  knock  sounds.^ 

Pierrette.  Come  in.  [The  door  swings  slowly  open,  as 
though  of  its  own  accord,  and  without,  on  the  threshold,  is  seen 
The  Manufacturer,  standing  full  in  the  moonlight.  He  is 
a  curious,  though  kindly-looking,  old  man,  and  yet,  with  all 
his  years,  he  does  not  appear  to  be  the  least  infirm.  He  is  the 
sort  of  person  that  children  take  to  instinctively.  He  wears  a 
quaintly  cut,  bottle-green  coat,  with  silver  buttons  and  large 
side-pockets,  which  almost  hide  his  knee-breeches.  His  shoes 
have  large  buckles  and  red  heels.  He  is  exceedingly  unlike  a 
prosperous  manufacturer,  and,  but  for  the  absence  of  a  violin, 
would  be  mistaken  for  a  village  fiddler.  Without  a  zvord  he 
advances  into  the  room,  and,  again  of  its  own  accord,  the  door 
closes  noiselessly  behind  him.] 

Pierrette  [jumping  up  and  moving  towards  him].  Oh,  I'm 
so  sorry.     I  ought  to  have  opened  the  door  when  you  knocked. 

Manufacturer.  That's  all  right.  I'm  used  to  opening 
doors.  And  yours  opens  much  more  easily  than  some  I  come 
across.  Would  you  believe  it,  some  people  positively  nail  their 
doors  up,  and  it's  no  good  knocking.  But  there,  you're  won- 
dering who  I  am. 

Pierrette.    I  was  wondering  if  you  were  hungry. 

Manufacturer.  Ah,  a  woman's  instinct.  But,  thank  you, 
no.  I  am  a  small  eater;  I  might  say  a  very  small  eater.  A 
smile  or  a  squeeze  of  the  hand  keeps  me  going  admirably. 

Pierrette.  At  least  you'll  sit  down  and  make  yourself  at 
home. 

Manufacturer  [moving  to  the  settle].  Well,  I  have  a 
habit  of  making  myself  at  home  everywhere.  In  fact,  most  peo- 
ple think  you  can't  make  a  home  without  me.  May  I  put  my 
feet  on  the  fender?     It's  an  old  habit  of  mine.     I  always  do  it. 

Pierrette.    They  say  round  here: 

"  Without  feet  on  the  fender 
Love  is  but  slender." 

Manufacturer.     Quite  right.     It  is  the  whole  secret  of 
the  domestic  fireside.     Pierrette,  you  have  been  crying. 
Pierrette.    I  believe  I  have. 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  85 

Manufacturer.  Bless  you,  I  know  all  about  it.  It's 
Pierrot.  And  so  you're  in  love  with  him,  and  he  doesn't  care 
a  little  bit  about  you,  eh?  What  a  strange  old  world  it  is! 
And  you  cry  your  eyes  out  over  him. 

Pierrette.  Oh,  no,  I  don't  often  cry.  But  to-night  he 
seemed  more  grumpy  than  usual,  and  I  tried  so  hard  to  cheer 
him  up. 

Manufacturer.    Grumpy,  is  he? 

Pierrette.  He  doesn't  mean  it,  though.  It's  the  cold 
weather,  and  the  show  hasn't  been  paying  so  well  lately. 
Pierrot  wants  to  write  an  article  about  us  for  the  local  paper 
by  way  of  an  advertisement.  He  thinks  the  editor  may  print 
it  if  he  gives  him  free  passes  for  his  family. 

Manufacturer.  Do  you  think  Pierrot  is  worth  your  tears? 

Pierrette.    Oh,  yes! 

Manufacturer.  You  know,  tears  are  not  to  be  wasted. 
We  only  have  a  certain  amount  of  them  given  to  us  just  for 
keeping  the  heart  moist.  And  when  we've  used  them  all  up 
and  haven't  any  more,  the  heart  dries  up,  too. 

Pierrette.  Pierrot  is  a  splendid  fellow.  You  don't  know 
him  as  well  as  I  do.  It's  true  he's  always  discontented,  but  it's 
only  because  he's  not  in  love  with  anyone.  You  know,  love  does 
make  a  tremendous  difference  in  a  man. 

Manufacturer.  That's  true  enough.  And  has  it  made 
a  difference  in  you? 

Pierrette.  Oh,  yes!  I  put  Pierrot's  slippers  down  to 
warm,  and  I  make  tea  for  him,  and  all  the  time  I'm  happy  be- 
cause I'm  doing  something  for  him.  If  I  weren't  in  love,  I 
should  find  it  a  drudgery. 

Manufacturer.    Are  you  sure  it's  real  love? 

Pierrette.    Why,  yes! 

Manufacturer.  Every  time  you  think  of  Pierrot,  do  you 
hear  the  patter  of  little  bare  feet?  And  every  time  he  speaks, 
do  you  feel  little  chubby  hands  on  your  breast  and  face? 

Pierrette  [fervently].    Yes!     Oh,  yes!     That's  just  it! 

Manufacturer.  You've  got  it  right  enough.  But  why  is 
it  that  Pierrot  can  wake  up  all  this  poetry  in  you? 

Pierrette.    Because — oh,  because  he's  just  Pierrot. 

Manufacturer.  "  Because  he's  just  Pierrot."  The  same 
old  reason. 

Pierrette.     Of  course,  he  is  a  bit  dreamy.     But  that's  his 


86  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

soul,  I  am  sure  he  could  do  great  things  if  he  tried.  And  have 
you  noticed  his  smile?  Isn't  it  lovely!  Sometimes,  when  he's 
not  looking,  I  want  ever  so  much  to  try  it  on,  just  to  see  how 
I  should  look  in  it.  [Pensively.]  But  I  wish  he'd  smile  at 
me  a  little  more  often,  instead  of  at  others. 

Manufacturer.    Ho!    So  he  smiles  at  others,  does  he? 

Pierrette.  Hardly  a  day  goes  by  but  there's  some  fine  lady 
at  the  show.  There  was  one  there  to-day,  a  tall  girl  with  red 
cheeks.  He  is  gone  to  look  for  her  now.  And  it  is  not  their 
faults.  The  poor  things  can't  help  being  in  love  with  him. 
[Proudly.]     I  believe  everyone  is  in  love  with  Pierrot. 

Manufacturer.  But  supposing  one  of  these  fine  ladies 
were  to  marry  him? 

Pierrette.  Oh,  they'd  never  do  that.  A  fine  lady  would 
never  marry  a  poor  singer.  If  Pierrot  were  to  get  married,  I 
think  I  should  just  .  .  .  fade  away.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  I  don't 
know  why  I  talk  to  you  like  this.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  known 
you  for  a  long,  long  time.  [The  Manufacturer  rises  from 
the  settle  and  ?noves  across  to  Pierrette,  who  is  now  folding 
up  the  white  table-cloth.] 

Manufacturer  [very  slowly].  Perhaps  you  have  known 
me  for  a  long,  long  time.  [His  tone  is  so  kindly  and  impres- 
sive that  Pierrette  forgets  the  table-cloth  and  looks  up  at  him. 
For  a  moment  or  two  he  smiles  back  at  her  as  she  gazes,  spell- 
bound; then  he  turns  away  to  the  fire  again,  with  the  little 
chuckle  that  is  never  far  from  his  lips.] 

Pierrette  [taking  a  small  bow  from  his  side-pocket].  Oh, 
look  at  this. 

Manufacturer  [in  mock  alarm].  Oh,  oh,  I  didn't  mean 
you  to  see  that.  I'd  forgotten  it  was  sticking  out  of  my  pocket. 
I  used  to  do  a  lot  of  archery  at  one  time.  I  don't  get  much 
chance  now.     [He  takes  it  and  puts  it  back  in  his  pocket.] 

Pierrot  [singing  in  the  distance]. 

"  Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon. 

She  is  drawing  the  sea  in  her  net; 
And  mellow  and  musical  June 
Is  teaching  the  rose  to  forget." 

Manufacturer  [in  a  whisper  as  the  voice  draws  nearer]. 
Who  is  that? 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  87 

Pierrette.  Pierrot.  [Again  the  conical  white  hat  flashes 
past  the  window  and  Pierrot  enters.^ 

Pierrot.  I  can't  find  her  anywhere.  {Seeing  The  Manu- 
facturer.]    Hullo!    Who  are  you? 

Manufacturer.  I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  but  Pierrette 
knew  me  in  a  moment. 

Pierrot.    An  old  flame  perhaps? 

Manufacturer.  True,  I  am  an  old  flame.  I've  lighted 
up  the  world  for  a  considerable  time.  Yet  when  you  say  "  old," 
there  are  many  people  who  think  I'm  wonderfully  well  pre- 
served for  my  age.  How  long  do  you  think  I've  been  trotting 
about  ? 

Pierrot  [testily,  measuring  a  length  with  his  hands].  Oh, 
about  that  long. 

Manufacturer.  I  suppose  being  funny  all  day  does  get 
on  your  nerves. 

Pierrette.    Pierrot,  you  needn't  be  rude. 

Manufacturer  [anxious  to  be  alone  with  Pierrot]. 
Pierrette,  have  you  got  supper  in? 

Pierrette.  Oh,  I  must  fly!  The  shops  will  all  be  shut. 
Will  you  be  here  when  I  come  back? 

Manufacturer  [bustling  her  out].  I  can't  promise,  but 
I'll  try,  I'll  try.  [Pierrette  goes  out.  There  is  a  silence,  dur- 
ing which  The  Manufacturer  regards  Pierrot  with  amuse- 
ment.] 

Manufacturer.  Well,  friend  Pierrot,  so  business  is  not 
very  brisk. 

Pierrot.  Brisk!  If  laughter  meant  business,  it  would  be 
brisk  enough,  but  there's  no  money.  However,  I've  done  one 
good  piece  of  work  to-day.  I've  arranged  with  the  editor  to 
put  an  article  in  the  paper.    That  will  fetch  'em.     [Singing] : 

"  Please  come  one  day  and  see  our  house  that's  down  among 

the  trees, 
But  do  not  come  at  four  o'clock  for  then  we  count  the  bees, 
And  bath  the  tadpoles  and  the  frogs,  who  splash  the  clouds 

with  gold. 
And  watch  the  new-cut  cucuv^bers  perspiring  with  the  cold." 

That's  a  song  I'm  writing. 

Manufacturer.  Pierrot,  if  you  had  all  the  money  in  the 
world  you  wouldn't  be  happy. 


88  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

Pierrot.  Wouldn't  I  ?  Give  me  all  the  money  in  the  world 
and  I'll  risk  it.  To  start  with,  I'd  build  schools  to  educate 
the  people  up  to  high-class  things. 

Manufacturer.  You  dream  of  fame  and  wealth  and 
empty  ideals,  and  you  miss  all  the  best  things  there  are.  You 
are  discontented.  Why?  Because  you  don't  know  how  to  be 
happy. 

Pierrot  [reciting] : 

"  Life's  a  running  brooklet, 
Catch  the  fishes  there, 
You  who  wrote  a  booklet 
On  a  woman's  hair." 

[Explaining.]  That's  another  song  I'm  writing.  It's  the 
second  verse.  Things  come  to  me  all  of  a  sudden  like  that. 
I  must  run  out  a  third  verse,  just  to  wind  it  up. 

Manufacturer.  Why  don't  you  write  a  song  without 
any  end,  one  that  goes  on  for  ever? 

Pierrot.     I  say,  that's  rather  silly,  isn't  it? 

Manufacturer.  It  all  depends.  For  a  song  of  that  sort 
the  singer  must  be  always  happy. 

Pierrot.    That  wants  a  bit  of  doing  in  my  line. 

Manufacturer.    Shall  you  and  I  transact  a  little  business? 

Pierrot.  By  all  means.  What  seats  would  you  like?  There 
are  the  front  rows  covered  in  velvet,  one  shilling;  wooden 
benches  behind,  sixpence ;  and,  right  at  the  back,  the  twopenny 
part.  But,  of  course,  you'll  have  shilling  ones.  How  many 
shall  we  say? 

Manufacturer.    You  don't  know  who  I  am. 

Pierrot.  That  makes  no  diffeience.  All  are  welcome, 
and  we  thank  you  for  your  courteous  attention. 

Manufacturer.     Pierrot,  I  am  a  maker  of  dreams. 

Pierrot.    A  what? 

Manufacturer.  I  make  all  the  dreams  that  float  about 
this  musty  world. 

Pierrot.  I  say,  you'd  better  have  a  rest  for  a  bit.  I  expect 
you're  a  trifle  done  up. 

Manufacturer.  Pierrot,  Pierrot,  your  superior  mind  can't 
tumble  to  my  calling.  A  child  or  one  of  the  "  people  "  would 
in  a  moment.     I  am  a  maker  of  dreams,  little  things  that  glide 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  89 

about  into  people's  hearts  and  make  them  glad.  Haven't  you 
often  wondered  where  the  swallows  go  to  in  the  autumn? 
They  come  to  my  workshop,  and  tell  me  who  wants  a  dream, 
and  what  happened  to  the  dreams  they  took  with  them  in  the 
spring. 

Pierrot,    Oh,  I  say,  you  can't  expect  me  to  believe  that. 

Manufacturer.  When  flowers  fade,  have  you  never  won- 
dered where  their  colors  go  to,  or  what  becomes  of  all  the  but- 
terflies in  the  winter?  There  isn't  much  winter  about  my 
workshop. 

Pierrot.    I  had  never  thought  of  it  before. 

Manufacturer.  It's  a  kind  of  lost  property  office,  where 
every  beautiful  thing  that  the  world  has  neglected  finds  its  way. 
And  there  I  make  my  celebrated  dream,  the  dream  that  is 
called  "  love." 

Pierrot.    Ho  !  ho !    Now  we're  talking. 

Manufacturer.    You  don't  believe  in  it? 

Pierrot.  Yes,  in  a  way.  But  it  doesn't  last.  It  doesn't 
last.  If  there  is  form,  there  isn't  soul,  and,  if  there  is  soul, 
there  isn't  form.  Oh,  I've  tried  hard  enough  to  believe  it,  but, 
after  the  first  wash,  the  colors  run. 

Manufacturer.  You  only  got  hold  of  a  substitute.  Wait 
until  you  see  the  genuine  article. 

Pierrot.    But  how  is  one  to  tell  it? 

Manufacturer.  There  are  heaps  of  signs.  As  soon  as 
you  get  the  real  thing,  your  shoulder-blades  begin  to  tingle. 
That's  love's  wings  sprouting.  And,  next,  you  want  to  soar 
up  among  the  stars  and  sit  on  the  roof  of  heaven  and  sing  to 
the  moon.  Of  course,  that's  because  I  put  such  a  lot  of  the 
moon  into  my  dreams.  I  break  bits  off  until  it's  nearly  all 
gone,  and  then  I  let  it  grow  big  again.  It  grows  very  quickly, 
as  I  dare  say  you've  noticed.  After  a  fortnight  it  is  ready  for 
use  once  more. 

Pierrot.  This  is  most  awfully  fascinating.  And  do  the 
swallows  bring  all  the  dreams? 

Manufacturer.  Not  always;  I  have  other  messengers. 
Every  night  when  the  big  clock  strikes  twelve,  a  day  slips  down 
from  the  calendar,  and  runs  away  to  my  workshop  in  the  Land 
of  Long  Ago.  I  give  him  a  touch  of  scarlet  and  a  gleam  of 
gold,  and  say,  "  Go  back,  little  Yesterday,  and  be  a  memory 
in  the  world."     But  my  best  dreams  I  keep  for  to-day.     I  buy 


90  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

babies,  and  fit  them  up  with  a  dream,  and  then  send  them  com- 
plete and  carriage  paid   ...   in  the  usual  manner. 

Pierrot.  I've  been  dreaming  all  my  life,  but  they've 
always  been  dreams  I  made  myself.  I  suppose  I  don't  mix  'em 
properly. 

Manufacturer.  You  leave  out  the  very  essence  of  them. 
You  must  put  in  a  little  sorrow,  just  to  take  away  the  over- 
sweetness.  I  found  that  out  very  soon,  so  I  took  a  little  of  the 
fresh  dew  that  made  pearls  in  the  early  morning,  and  I 
sprinkled  my  dreams  with  the  gift  of  tears. 

Pierrot  [ecstatically].  The  gift  of  tears!  How  beautiful! 
You  know,  I  should  rather  like  to  try  a  real  one.  Not  one  of 
my  own  making. 

Manufacturer.  Well,  there  are  plenty  about,  if  you  only 
look  for  them. 

Pierrot.  That  is  all  very  well,  but  who's  going  to  look 
about  for  stray  dreams? 

Manufacturer.  I  once  made  a  dream  that  would  just  suit 
you.  I  slipped  it  inside  a  baby.  That  was  twenty  years  ago, 
and  the  baby  is  now  a  full-grown  woman,  with  great  blue  eyes 
and  fair  hair. 

Pierrot.    It's  a  lot  of  use  merely  telling  me  about  her. 

Manufacturer.  I'll  do  more.  When  I  shipped  her  to 
the  world,  I  kept  the  bill  of  lading.  Here  it  is.  You  shall 
have  it. 

Pierrot.    Thanks,  but  what's  the  good  of  it? 

Manufacturer.  Why,  the  holder  of  that  is  able  to  claim 
the  goods;  you  will  notice  it  contains  a  complete  description, 
too.     I  promise  you,  you're  in  luck. 

Pierrot.    Has  she  red  cheeks  and  a  string  of  great  beads? 

Manufacturer.     No. 

Pierrot.    Ah,  then  it  is  not  she.    Where  shall  I  find  her? 

Manufacturer.  That's  for  you  to  discover.  All  you  have 
to  do  is  to  search. 

Pierrot.     I'll  start  at  once.     [He  moves  as  if  to  go.] 

Manufacturer.     I  shouldn't  start  out  to-night. 

Pierrot.  But  I  want  to  find  her  soon.  Somebody  else  may 
find  her  before  me. 

Manufacturer.  Pierrot,  there  was  once  a  man  who 
wanted  to  gather  mushrooms. 

Pierrot  [an?ioyed  at  the  commonplace].     Mushrooms! 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  gi" 

Manufacturer.  Fearing  people  would  be  up  before  him, 
he  started  out  overnight.  Morning  came,  and  he  found  none, 
so  he  returned  disconsolate  to  his  house.  As  he  came  through 
the  garden,  he  found  a  great  mushroom  had  grown  up  in  the 
night  by  his  very  door-step.  Take  the  advice  of  one  who  knows, 
and  wait  a  bit. 

Pierrot.  If  that's  your  advice.  .  .  .  But  tell  me  this,  do 
you  think  I  shall  find  her? 

Manufacturer.  I  can't  say  for  certain.  Would  you  con- 
sider yourself  a  fool? 

Pierrot.  Ah  ...  of  course  .  .  .  when  you  ask  me  a 
direct  thing  like  that,  you  make  it  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  rather  awk- 
ward for  me.  But,  if  I  may  say  so,  as  man  to  ma  ...  I 
mean  as  man  to   .    .    .    [he  hesitates]. 

Manufacturer  [waiving  the  point].    Yes,  yes. 

Pierrot.    Well,  I  flatter  myself  that  .   .   . 

Manufacturer.  Exactly.  And  that's  your  principal  dan- 
ger. Whilst  you  are  striding  along  gazing  at  the  stars,  you 
may  be  treading  on  a  little  glow-worm.  Shall  I  give  you  a 
third  verse  for  your  song? 

"  Life's  a  woman  calling, 
Do  not  stop  your  ears. 
Lest,  when  night  is  falling, 
Darkness  brings  you  tears." 

[The  Manufacturer's  kindly  and  impressive  tone  holds 
Pierrot  as  it  had  held  Pierrette  some  moments  before. 
Whilst  the  two  are  looking  at  each  other,  a  little  red  cloak 
dances  past  the  window,  and  Pierrette  enters  with  her 
marketing.] 

Pierrette.    Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you're  still  here. 

Manufacturer.  But  I  must  be  going  now.  I  am  a  great 
traveler. 

Pierrette  [standing  against  the  door,  so  that  he  cannot 
pass].    Oh,  you  mustn't  go  yet. 

Manufacturer.  Don't  make  me  fly  out  of  the  window. 
I  only  do  that  under  very  unpleasant  circumstances. 

Pierrot  [gaily,  with  mock  eloquence].  Pierrette,  regard 
our  visitor.  You  little  knew  whom  you  were  entertaining. 
You  see  before  you  the  maker  of  the  dreams  that  slip  about 


92  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

the  world  like  little  fish  among  the  rushes  of  a  stream.  He 
has  given  me  the  bill  of  lading  of  his  great  masterpiece,  and  it 
only  remains  for  me  to  find  her.  {Dropping  to  the  common- 
place.^    I  wish  I  knew  where  to  look. 

Manufacturer.  Before  I  go,  I  will  give  you  this  little 
rhyme : 

"  Let  every  woman  keep  a  school, 
For  every  man  is  born  a  fool." 

[He  bows,  and  goes  out  quickly  and  silently.]^ 

Pierrette  [running  to  the  door,  and  looking  oz//].  Why, 
how  quickly  he  has  gone!     He's  out  of  sight. 

Pierrot.  At  last  I  am  about  to  attain  my  great  ideal.  There 
will  be  a  grand  wedding,  and  I  shall  wear  my  white  coat  with 
the  silver  braid,  and  carry  a  tall  gold-topped  stick.     [Singing:^ 

"  If  we  play  any  longer,  I  fear  you  will  get 
Such  a  cold  in  the  head,  for  the  grass  is  so  wet. 
But  during  the  night,  Margareta  divine, 
I  will  hang  the  wet  grass  up  to  dry  on  the  line." 

Pierrette,  I  feel  that  I  am  about  to  enter  into  a  man's  in- 
heritance, a  woman's  love. 

Pierrette.    I  wish  you  every  happiness. 

Pierrot    [singing  teasingly:] 

"  We  shall  meet  in  our  dreams,  that's  a  thing  understood; 
You  dream  of  the  river,  I'll  dream  of  the  wood. 
I  am  visiting  you,  if  the  river  it  be; 
If  we  meet  in  the  wood,  you  are  visiting  me." 

Pierrette.  We  must  make  lots  of  money,  so  that  you  can 
give  her  all  she  wants.  I'll  dance  and  dance  until  I  fall,  and 
the  people  will  exclaim,  "  Why,  she  has  danced  herself  to 
death." 

Pierrot.  You're  right.  We  must  pull  the  show  together. 
I'll  do  that  article  for  the  paper  at  once.  [He  takes  paper, 
ink,  etc.,  from  the  dresser,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  table, 
commences  to  write.]  "  There  has  lately  come  to  this  town  a 
company  of  strolling  players,  who  give  a  show  that  is  at  once 
musical   and   droll.     The  audience  is  enthralled   by   Pierrot's 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  93 

magnificent  singing  and  dancing,  and  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  very  much 
entertained  by  Pierrette's  homely  dancing.  Pierrette  is  a 
charming  comedienne  of  twenty,  with  ..."  what  color  hair? 

Pierrette.     Fair,  quite  fair. 

Pierrot.  Funny  how  one  can  see  a  person  every  day  and 
not  know  the  color  of  their  hair.  "Fair  hair  and  .  .  ." 
eyes? 

Pierrette.     Blue,  Pierrot. 

Pierrot.  "Pair  hair  and  blue  eyes."  Fair!  Blue!  Oh, 
of  course  it's  nonsense,  though. 

Pierrette.     What's  nonsense? 

Pierrot.  Something  I  was  thinking.  Most  girls  have  fair 
hair  and  blue  eyes. 

Pierrette.    Yes,  Pierrot,  we  can't  all  be  ideals. 

Pierrot.  How  musical  your  voice  sounds!  I  can't  make  it 
out.  Oh,  but,  of  course,  it  is  all  nonsense!  [He  takes  the  bill 
of  lading  from  his  pocket  and  reads  it.] 

Pierrette.  What's  nonsense?  .  .  .  Pierrot,  won't  you 
tell  me? 

Pierrot.    Pierrette,  stand  in  the  light. 

Pierrette.     Is  anything  the  matter? 

Pierrot.  I  almost  believe  that  nothing  matters.  [Reading 
and  glancing  at  her.]  "  Eyes  that  say  '  I  love  you  ' ;  arms  that 
say  '  I  want  you  ' ;  lips  that  say  '  Why  don't  you?  '  "  Pierrette, 
is  it  possible!  I've  never  noticed  before  how  beautiful  you 
are.  You  don't  seem  a  bit  the  same.  I  believe  you  have  lost 
your  real  face,  and  have  carved  another  out  of  a  rose. 

Pierrette.    Oh,  Pierrot,  what  is  it? 

Pierrot.  Love!  I've  found  it  at  last.  Don't  you  under- 
stand it  all? 

"  I  am  a  fool 
Who  has  learned  wisdom  in  your  school." 

To  think  that  I've  seen  you  every  day,  and  never  dreamed 
.  .  .  dreamed!  Yes,  ah  yes,  it's  one  of  his  beautiful  dreams. 
That  is  why  my  heart  seems  full  of  the  early  morning. 

Pierrette.    Ah,  Pierrot! 

Pierrot.  Oh,  how  my  shoulders  tingle !  I  want  to  soar  up, 
up.  Don't  you  want  to  fly  up  to  the  roof  of  heaven  and  sing 
among  the  stars? 


94  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

Pierrette.  I  have  been  sitting  on  the  moon  ever  so  long, 
vi^aiting  for  my  lover.  Pierrot,  let  me  try  on  your  smile.  Give 
it  to  me  in  a  kiss.  [With  their  hands  outstretched  behind 
them,  they  lean  towards  each  other,  till  their  lips  meet  in  a 
long  kiss.\ 

Pierrette  [throwing  back  her  head  with  a  deep  sigh  of  hap- 
piness.] Oh,  I  am  so  happy.  This  might  be  the  end  of  all 
things. 

Pierrot.  Pierrette,  let  us  sit  by  the  fire  and  put  our  feet  on 
the  fender,  and  live  happily  ever  after.  [They  have  moved 
slowly  to  the  settle.    As  they  sit  there,  Pierrot  sings  softly:] 

"  Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon, 

The  stairs  of  the  sky  are  so  steep; 
And  mellow  and  musical  June 
Is  waiting  to  kiss  you  to  sleep." 

[The  lamp  on  the  hood  of  the  chimney-piece  has  burned 
down,  leaving  only  the  red  glow  from  the  fire  upon  their  faces, 
as  the  curtain  whispers  down  to  hide  them.] 


GETTYSBURG  * 
A  WOOD-SHED  COMMENTARY 

By 
PERCY  MACKAYE 


*  Copyright,  1912,  1921,  by  Percy  MacKaye.     All  rights  reserved. 

SPECIAL  NOTICE 

This  play  in  its  printed  form  is  designed  for  the  reading  public 
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YORK  CITY. 


Percy  MacKaye  was  born  in  New  York,  March  i6,  1875, 
the  son  of  Steele  MacKaye,  a  well-known  dramatist  and 
theatrical  inventor  of  his  day.  "  My  own  early  dramatic  train- 
ing," writes  the  son,  "  was  in  the  theatre  in  relation  with  my 
father's  work  there  as  dramatist,  actor,  and  director."  In 
another  place  he  says:  "  I  have  not  sought  to  conceal,  or  to 
put  aside,  the  grateful  enthusiasm  I  feel,  as  a  son  and  com- 
rade of  Steele  MacKa3'e,  for  those  examples  of  untiring  de- 
votion to  the  theatre  and  of  constructive  achievement  in  its 
art,  by  which  his  life  has  been  an  inspiration  to  my  own,  to 
follow — however  haltingly  and  through  different  means — the 
trail  of  his  large  leadership."  Percy  MacKaye  was  graduated 
from  Harvard  in  1897  ^"^  later  spent  a  year  studying  at  the 
University  of  Leipzig.  After  travel  abroad,  he  returned  to 
New  York  in  1900  and  taught  there  in  a  private  school  till 
1904.  He  spent  some  time  in  the  next  five  years  lecturing  on 
the  Drama  of  Democracy  and  the  Civic  Theatre  at  various 
American  universities.  In  1904  he  joined  the  colony  of  artists 
and  men  of  letters  at  Cornish,  New  Hampshire,  the  home  of 
Saint-Gaudens,  Maxfield  Parrish,  Winston  Churchill,  and 
others.  Since  that  date  Percy  MacKaye  has  devoted  himself 
wholly  to  poetry  and  the  drama,  writing  community  masques, 
plays  of  various  kinds,  and  operas.^  It  is  interesting  to  note 
that  one  of  the  latest  products  of  his  pen,  Washington,  the  Man 
Who  Made  Us,  A  Ballad  Play,  was  translated  into  French 
and  presented  by  M.  Copeau's  players,  at  the  Theatre  du 
Vieux  Colombier,  during  their  second  season  in  New  York,  and 
later  acted  in  English  by  Walter  Hampden,  the  scene  designs 
being  made  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones.  In  October,  1920,  he 
was  invited  to  Miami  University,  Oxford,  Ohio,  not  to  teach 
but  to  continue  his  own  creative  work,  quite  untrammeled, 
filling  there  the  first  fellowship  in  creative  literature  ever  estab- 
lished in  this  country. 

Yankee  Fantasies,  a  collection  of  five  one-act  plays  of  which 
Gettysburg  is  one,  is  the  expression  of  Percy  MacKaye's  belief 
that  the  American  dramatist  may  find  "  north  of  Boston,"  or, 

1 A  list  of  his  works  is  given  in  the  latest  Who's  Who  in  America. 

97 


98  GETTYSBURG 

in  fact,  in  almost  any  rural  neighborhood,  material  for  "  quaint 
and  lovely  interpretation  of  our  native  environment  now- 
ignored."  These  plays,  published  in  191 2,  testified  also  to  his 
conviction  that  the  time  had  come  for  the  development  of  the 
one-act  play  in  this  country,  not  only  because  this  form  is  dis- 
tinctive and  capable  of  expressing  what  the  full-length  play 
cannot,  but  also  because  a  receptive  audience  was  already  or- 
ganized. He  found  even  then  that  amateurs  in  schools,  col- 
leges, and  elsewhere  were  clamoring  to  perform  one-act  plays, 
to  see  them  performed,  and  to  read  them.  At  that  date  Little 
Theatres  were  just  beginning  to  be,  but  in  the  preface  to 
Yankee  Fantasies,  the  author  advocated  the  establishment  of 
Studio  Theatres,  in  essence  experimental,  many  of  which  have 
since  come  into  existence  under  different  names,  wherein  play- 
wrights might  practice  the  new  craft  of  the  one-act  play  as  in 
a  workshop.  The  one-act  play  may  be  said  to  have  arrived  in 
the  nine  years  that  have  elapsed  since  Gettysburg  was  published. 
The  one-act  play  has  shown  no  tendency,  however,  to  rival 
the  short-story  in  the  matter  of  local  color.  Kentucky,  Cali- 
fornia, Iowa,  Louisiana,  to  name  but  a  few  of  the  favored 
states  which  have  served  as  rich  backgrounds  for  many  finely 
flavored  narratives  of  American  life,  have  been  neglected  as 
sources  of  dramatic  material.  But  though  Percy  MacKaye  may 
perhaps  be  matched  with  Mary  Wilkins,  there  is  no  writer  who 
has  made  notable  use  in  the  one-act  play  of  localities,  asso- 
ciated, for  example,  with  the  art  of  George  W.  Cable,  Bret 
Harte,  James  Lane  Allen,  or  Hamlin  Garland.  One  of  the 
paths  of  glory  for  the  American  dramatist  lies  undoubtedly  in 
this  direction. 


GETTYSBURG 

CHARACTERS 

Link  Tadbourne,  ox-yoke  maker. 
Polly,  his  grandniece. 

The  Place  is  country  New  Hampshire,  at  the  present  time, 

SCENE. — A  woodshed,  in  the  ell  of  a  farm  house. 

The  shed  is  open  on  both  sides,  front  and  back,  the  apertures 
being  slightly  arched  at  the  top.  \In  bad  weather,  these 
presumably  may  be  closed  by  big  double  doors,  which 
stand  open  now — swung  back  outward  beyond  sight.] 
Thus  the  nearer  opening  is  the  proscenium  arch  of  the 
scene,  under  which  the  spectator  looks  through  the  shed 
to  the  background — a  grassy  yard,  a  road  with  great 
trunks  of  soaring  elms,  and  the  glimpse  of  a  green  hillside. 
The  ceiling  runs  up  into  a  gable  with  large  beams. 

On  the  right,  at  back,  a  door  opens  into  the  shed  from  the  house 
kitchen.  Opposite  it,  a  door  leads  from  the  shed  into  the 
barn.  In  the  foreground,  against  the  right  wall,  is  a 
work-bench.  On  this  are  tools,  a  long,  narrow,  luooden 
box,  and  a  small  oil  stove,  with  steaming  kettle  upon  it. 

'Against  the  left  wall,  what  remains  of  the  year's  wood  supply 
is  stacked,  the  uneven  ridges  sloping  to  a  jumble  of  stove- 
wood  and  kindlings  mixed  with  small  chips  on  the  floor, 
which  is  piled  deep  with  mounds  of  crumbling  bark,  chips 
and  wood-dust. 

Not  far  from  this  mounded  pile,  at  right  center  of  the  scene, 
stands  a  wooden  arm-chair,  in  which  LiNK  Tadbourne, 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  sits  drowsing.  Silhouetted  by  the  sun- 
light beyond,  his  sharp-drawn  profile  is  that  of  an  old  man, 
with  white  hair  cropped  close,  and  gray  mustache  of  a 

99 


loo  GETTYSBURG 

faded  black  hue  at  the  outer  edges.  Between  his  knees  is 
a  stout  thong  of  wood,  whittled  round  by  the  draivshave 
which  his  sleeping  hand  still  holds  in  his  lap.  J  gainst  the 
side  of  his  chair  rests  a  thick  wooden  yoke  and  collar. 
Near  him  is  a  chopping-block. 

In  the  woodshed  there  is  no  sound  or  motion  except  the  hum 
and  floating  steam  from  the  tea-kettle.  Presently  the  old 
man  rnurmurs  in  his  sleep,  clenching  his  hand.  Slowly  the 
hand  relaxes  again.  From  the  door,  right,  comes  PoLLY — 
a  sweet-faced  girl  of  seventeen,  quietly  rnature  for  her  age. 
She  is  dressed  simply.  In  one  hand,  she  carries  a  man's 
wide-brimmed  felt  hat;  over  the  other  arm,  a  blue  coat. 
These  she  brings  toward  LiNK.  Seeing  him  asleep,  she  be- 
gins to  tiptoe,  lays  the  coat  and  hat  on  the  chopping-block, 
goes  to  the  bench  and  trims  the  zvick  of  the  oil-stove,  under 
the  kettle.  Then  she  returns  and  stands  near  Link,  sur- 
veying the  shed. 

On  closer  scrutiny,  the  jumbled  woodpile  has  evidently  a  cer- 
tain order  in  its  chaos:  some  of  the  splittings  have  been 
piled  in  irregular  ridges;  in  places,  the  deep  layer  of  wood- 
dust  and  chips  has  been  scooped,  and  the  little  mounds  slope 
and  rise  like  miniature  valleys  and  hills.* 

Taking  up  a  hoe,  Polly — with  careful  steps — moves  among  the 
hollows,  placing  and  arranging  sticks  of  kindling,  scraping 
and  smoothing  the  little  mounds  with  the  hoe. 

As  she  does  so,  from  far  away,  a  bugle  sounds. 

Link  {snapping  his  eyes  wide  open,  sits  up]. 

Hello!     Cat-nappin'  was  I,  Polly? 
Polly.  Just 

a  kitten-nap,  I  guess. 

[Laying  the  hoe  down,  she  approaches.] 
The  yoke  done? 

*A  suggestion  for  the  appropriate  arrangement  of  these  mounds  may 
be  found  in  the  map  of  the  battle-field  annexed  to  the  volume  by  Capt. 
R.  K.  Beecham,  entitled  Gettysburg,  A.  C.  McClurg,  1911. 


GETTYSBURG  loi 

Link   [giving  a  final  whittle  to  the  yoke-collar  thong], 

Thar! 
When  he's  ben  steamed  a  spell,  and  bended  snug, 
I  guess  this  feller'U  sarve  t'  say  "  Gee  "  to — 
[Lifting   the   other  yoke-collar  from   beside   his  chair,   he 
holds  the  whittled   thong   next  to   it,  comparing   the 
two  with  expert  eye.] 
and  "Haw"  to  him.     Beech  every  time,  Sir;  beech 
or  walnut.     Hang  me  if  I'd  shake  a  whip 
at  birch,  for  ox-yokes. — Polly,  are  ye  thar? 
Polly. 

Yes,  Uncle  Link. 
Link.  What's  that  I  used  to  sing  ye? 

"  Polly,  put  the  kittle  on, 
Polly,  put  the  kittle  on, 
Polly,  put  the  kittle  on — "    [Chuckling.] 
We'll  give  this  feller  a  dose  of  ox-yoke  tea! 
Polly. 

The  kettle's  boilin'. 
Link.  Wall,  then,  steep  him  good. 

[Polly  takes  from  Link  the  collar-thong,  carries  it  to  the 
work-bench,  shoves  it  into  the  narrow  end  of  the  box, 
which  she  then  closes  tight  and  connects — by  a  piece 
of  hose — to  the  spout  of  the  kettle.  At  the  further 
end  of  the  box,  steam  then  emerges  through  a  small 
hole.] 
Polly. 

You're  feelin'  smart  to-day. 
Link.  Smart!— Wall,   if   I 

could  git  a  hull  man  to  swap  legs  with  me, 
mebbe  I'd  arn  my  keep.     But  this  here  settin' 
dead  an'  alive,  without  no  legs,  day  in, 
day  out,  don't  make  an  old  boss  wuth  his  oats. 
Polly   [cheerfully]. 

I  guess  you'll  soon  be  walkin'  round. 
Link.  Not  if 

that  doctor  feller  has  his  say:  He  says 
I  can't  never  go  agin  this  side  o'  Jordan; 
and   looks  like  he's  'bout  right. — Nine  months  to- 

morrer, 
Polly,  gal,  sence  I  had  that  stroke. 


102  GETTYSBURG 

Polly  [pointing  to  the  ox-yoke]. 

You're  fitter 
sittin'  than  most  folks  standin'. 

Link  [briskly].  Oh,  they  can't 

keep  my  two  hands  from  makin'  ox-yokes.     That's 

my  second  natur'  sence  I  was  a  boy. 

[Again  in  the  distance  a  bugle  sounds.     LiNK  starts.^ 

What's  that? 
Polly.  Why,  that's  the  army  veterans 

down  to  the  gravej^ard.     This  is  Decoration 

mornin':  you  ain't  forgot? 
Link.  So  'tis,  so  'tis. 

Roger,  your  young  man — hal      [Chuckling.]      He  come 
and  axed  me 

was  I  agoin'  to  the  cemetery. 

'•  Me?    Don't  I  look  it?"  says  L    Ha!    "  Don't  I  look 
it?" 

Polly. 

He  meant — to  decorate  the  graves. 

Link.  O'  course; 

but  I  must  take  my  little  laugh.     I  told  him 
I  guessed  I  wa'n't  persent'ble  anyhow, 
my  mustache  and  my  boots  wa'n't  blacked  this  mornin*. 
I  don't  jest  like  t'  talk  about  my  legs. — 
Be  you  a-goin'  to  take  your  young  school  folks, 
Polly? 

Polly. 

Dear  no!     I  told  my  boys  and  girls 
to  march  up  this  way  with  the  band.     I  said 
I'd  be  a-stayin'  home  and  learnin'  how 
to  keep  school  in  the  woodpile  here  with  you. 

Link  [looking  up  at  her  proudly]. 

Schoolma'am  at  seventeen!     Some  smart,  I  tell  ye! 

Polly  [caressing  him]. 

School-master,  you,  past  seventy;  that's  smarter! 
I  tell  'em  I  learn  from  you,  so's  I  can  teach 
my  young  folks  what  the  study-books  leave  out. 

Link. 

Sure  ye  don't  want  to  jine  the  celebratin'? 


GETTYSBURG  103 

Polly. 

No  Sir!    We're  goin'  to  celebrate  right  here, 
and  you're  to  teach  me  to  keep  school  some  more. 
[She  holds  ready  for  him  the  blue  coat  and  hat.] 

Link  [looking  up]. 

What's  thar? 
Polly.  Your  teachin'  rig. 

[She  helps  him  on  with  it.] 
Link.  The  old  blue  coat ! — 

My,  but  I'd  like  to  see  the  boys:       [Gazing  at  the  hat.] 

the  Grand 
Old  Army  Boys^.     [Dreamily.]     Yes,  we  was  boys:  jest 

boys! 
Polly,  you  tell  your  young  folks,  when  they  study 
the  books,  that  we  was  nothin'  else  but  boys 
jest  fallin'  in  love,  with  best  gals  left  t'  home — 
the  same  as  you;  and  when  the  shot  was  singin', 
we  pulled  their  pictur's  out,  and  prayed  to  them 
'most  more  'n  the  Allmighty. 

[Link   looks   up   suddenly — a  strange   light   in    his   face, 
Agaiuj  to  a  far  strain  of  music,  the  bugle  sounds.] 

Thar  she  blows 
Agin ! 
Polly. 

They're  marchin'  to  the  graves  with  flowers. 
Link. 

My  Godfrey!  't  ain't  so  much  thinkin'  o'  flowers 
and  the  young  folks,  their  faces,  and  the  blue 
line  of  old  fellers  marchin' — it's  the  music! 
that  old  brass  voice  a-callin'!     Seems  as  though, 
legs  or  no  legs,  I'd  have  to  up  and  foUer 
to  God-knows-whar,  and  holler — holler  back 
to  guns  roarin'  in  the  dark.     No;  durn  it,  no! 
I  jest  can't  stan'  the  music. 
Polly  [goes  to  the  work-bench,  where  the  box  is  steaming]. 

Uncle  Link, 
you  want  that  I  should  steam  this  longer? 
//INK  [absently]. 

Oh, 

A  kittleful,  a  kittleful. 


I04  GETTYSBURG 

Polly  [coming  over  to  him]. 

Now,  then, 
I         I'm  ready  for  school. — I  hope  I've  drawed  the  map 
all  right. 

Link. 

Map?     Oh,  the  map! 
[Surveyinff  the  woodpile  reminiscently,  he  nods.] 

Yes,  thar  she  be: 
old  Gettysburg! 

Polly. 

I  know  the  places — most. 
Link. 

So,  do  ye?    Good,  now:  whar's  your  marker? 

Polly  [taking  up  the  hoe]. 

Here. 
Link. 

Willoughby  Run:  whar's  that? 

Polly  [points  with  the  hoe  toward  the  left  of  the  woodpile]. 

That's  farthest  over 
next  the  barn  door. 

Link.  My,  how  we  fit  the  Johnnies 

thar,  the  fust  mornin'!     Jest  behind  them  willers, 
acrost  the  Run,  that's  whar  we  captur'd  Archer. 
My,  my! 

Polly.  Over  there — that's  Seminary  Ridge. 

[She  points  to  different  heights  and  depressions,  as  LiNK 
nods  his  approval.] 
Peach  Orchard,  Devil's  Den,  Round  Top,  the  Wheatfield — 

Link. 

Lord,  Lord,  the  Wheatfield ! 

Polly  [continuing]. 

Cemetery  Hill, 
Little  Round  Top,  Death  Valley,  and  this  here 
is  Cemetery  Ridge. 

Link  [pointing  to  the  little  flag]. 

And  colors  flyin'! 
We  kep  'em  flyin'  thar,  too,  all  three  days, 
from  start  to  finish. 

Polly.  Have  I  learned  'em  right? 


GETTYSBURG  105 

Link. 

A  number  One,  chick!     Wait  a  mite:  Gulp's  Hill: 

I  don't  jest  spy  Gulp's  Hill. 
Polly.  There  wa'n't  enough 

kindlin's  to  spare  for  that.     It  ought  to  lay 

east  there,  towards  the  kitchen. 
Link.  Let  it  go! 

That's  vvhar  us  Yanks  left  our  back  door  ajar 

and  Johnson  stuck  his  foot  in :  kep  it  thar, 

too,  till  he  got  it  squoze  oft  by  old  Slocum. 

Let  Gulp's  Hill  lay  for  now. — Lend  me  your  marker. 

[Polly  hands  him  the  hoe.     From  his  chair j  he  reaches 
with  it  and  digs  in  the  chips.] 

Death  Valley  needs  some  scoopin'  deeper.     So: 

smooth  off  them  chips. 

[Polly  does  so  with  her  foot.] 

You  better  guess  't  was  deep 

as  hell,  that  second  day,  come  sundown. — Here, 
[He  hands  back  the  hoe  to  her.] 

flat  down  the  Wheatfield  yonder. 
[Polly  does  so.] 

Goda'mighty ! 

that  Wheatfield:  wall,  we  flatted  it  down  flatter 

than  any  pancake  what  you  ever  cooked, 

Polly;  and  't  wan't  no  maple  syrup  neither 

was  runnin',  slipp'ry  hot  and  slimy  black 

all  over  it,  that  nightfall. 
Polly.  Here's  the  road 

to  Emmetsburg. 
Link.  No,  'tain't:  this  here's  the  pike 

to  Taneytown,  where  Sykes's  boys  come  sweatin', 

after  an  all-night  march,  jest  in  the  nick 

to  save  our  second  day.     The  Emmetsburg 

road's  thar. — Whar  was  I,  'fore  I  fell  cat-nappin'? 
Polly. 

At  sunset,  July  second.  Sixty-three. 
Link  [nodding,  reminiscent]. 

The  Bloody  Sundown!     God,  that  crazy  sun: 

she  set  a  dozen  times  that  afternoon, 

red-yeller  as  a  punkin  jacko'lantern, 

rairin'  and  pitchin'  through  the  roarin'  smoke 


io6  GETTYSBURG 

till  she  clean  busted,  like  the  other  bombs, 
behind  the  hills. 

Polly.  My!     Wa'n't  you  never  scart 

and  wished  you'd  stayed  t'  home  ? 

Link.  Scart?  Wall,  I  wonder! 

Chick,  look  a-thar:  them  little  stripes  and  stars. 
I  heerd  a  feller  onct,  down  to  the  store, — 
a  dressy  mister,  span-new  from  the  city — 
layin'  the  law  down :  "  All  this  stars  and  stripes/* 
says  he,  "  and  red  and  white  and  blue  is  rubbish, 
mere  sentimental  rot,  spread-eagleism!" 
"  I  wan't  t'  know!  "  says  I.    "  In  Sixty-three, 
I  knowed  a  lad,  named  Link.     Onct,  after  sundown 
I  met  him  stumblin' — with  two  dead  men's  muskets 
for  crutches — towards  a  bucket,  full  of  ink — 
water,  they  called  it.    When  he'd  drunk  a  spell, 
he  tuk  the  rest  to  wash  his  bullet  holes. — 
Wall,  sir,  he  had  a  piece  o'  splintered  stick, 
with  red  and  white  and  blue,  tore  'most  t'  tatters, 
a-danglin'  from  it.     "  Be  you  color  sergeant?  " 
says  L     "  Not  me,"  says  Link ;  "  the  sergeant's  dead, 
but  when  he  fell,  he  handed  me  this  bit 
o'  rubbish — red  and  white  and  blue."    And  Link 
he  laughed.     "  What  be  you  laughin'  for?  "  says  L 
"  Oh,  nothin'.    Ain't  it  lovely,  though !  "  says  Link. 

Polly. 

What  did  the  span-new  mister  say  to  that? 

Link. 

I  didn't  stop  to  listen.    Them  as  never 

heerd  dead  men  callin'  for  the  colors  don't 

guess  what  they  be.     [^Sitting  up  and  blinking  hard.] 

But  this  ain't  keepin'  school! 

Polly  [quietly]. 

I  guess  I'm  learnin'  somethin',  Uncle  Link. 

Link. 

The  second  day,  'fore  sunset. 

[He  takes  the  hoe  and  points  with  it.] 

Yon's  the  Wheatfield. 
Behind  it  thar  lies  Longstreet  with  his  rebels. 
Here  be  the  Yanks,  and  Cemetery  Ridge 
behind  'em.     Hancock — he's  our  general — 


GETTYSBURG  107 

he's  got  to  hold  the  Ridge,  till  reinforcements 
from  Taneytown.     But  lose  the  Wheatfield,  lose 
the  Ridge,  and  lose  the  Ridge — lose  God-and-all! — 
Lee,  the  old  fox,  he'd  nab  up  Washington, 
Abe  Lincoln  and  the  White  House  in  one  bite! — 
So  the  Union,  Polly, — me  and  you  and  Roger, 
your  Uncle  Link,  and  Uncle  Sam — is  all 
thar — growin'  in  that  Wheatfield. 
Polly  [smiling  proudly]. 

And  they're  growin* 
still! 
Link. 

Not  the  wheat,  though.    Over  them  stone  walls, 
thar  comes  the  Johnnies,  thick  as  grasshoppers: 
gray  legs  a-jumpin'  through  the  tall  wheat  tops. 
And  now  thar  ain't  no  tops,  thar  ain't  no  wheat, 
thar  ain't  no  lookin':  jest  blind  feelin'  round 
in  the  black  mud,  and  trampin'  on  boys'  faces, 
and  grapplin'  with  hell-devils,  and  stink  o'  smoke, 
and  stingin'  smother,  and — up  thar  through  the  dark — 
that  crazy  punkin  sun,  like  an  old  moon 
lopsided,  crackin'  her  red  shell  with  thunder! 
[In  the  distance,  a  bugle  sounds,  and  the  low  martial  music 
of  a  brass  band  begins.    Again  Link's  face  twitches, 
and  he  pauses,  listening.     From  this  moment  on,  the 
sound  and  emotion  of  the  brass  music,  slowly  growing 
louder,  permeates  the  scene.] 
Polly. 

Oh!    What  was  God  a-thinkin'  of,  t'  allow 
the  created  world  to  act  that  awful? 
Link.  Now, 

I  wonder! — Cast  your  eye  along  this  hoe: 
[He  stirs  the  chips  and  wood-dirt  round  with  the  hoe-iron.] 
Thar  in  that  poked  up  mess  o'  dirt,  you  see 
yon  weeny  chip  of  ox-yoke? — That's  the  boy 
I  spoke  on:  Link,  Link  Tadbourne:  "  Chipmunk  Link," 
they  call  him,  'cause  his  legs  is  spry  's  a  squirrel's. — 
Wall,  mebbe  some  good  angel,  with  bright  eyes 
like  yourn,  stood  lookin'  down  on  him  that  day, 
keepin'  the  Devil's  hoe  from  crackin'  him. 

[Patting  her  hand,  which  rests  on  his  hoe.] 


io8  GETTYSBURG 

If  so,  I  reckon,  Polly,  it  was  you. 
But  mebbe  jest  Old  Nick,  as  he  sat  hoein' 
them  hills,  and  haulin'  in  the  little  heaps 
o'  squirmin'  critters,  kind  o'  reco'nized 
Link  as  his  livin'  image,  and  so  kep  him 
to  put  in  an  airthly  hell,  whar  thar  ain't  no  legs, 
and  worn-out  devils  sit  froze  in  high-backed  chairs, 
list'nin'  to  bugles — bugles — bugles,  callin'. 
[Link  clutches  the  sides  of  his  chair,  staring.     The  music 
draws  nearer.     Polly  touches  hi?n  soothingly.] 
Polly. 

Don't,  dear;  they'll  soon  quit  playin'.     Never  mind  'em. 
Link  [relaxing  under  her  touch]. 

No,  never  mind;  that's  right.     It's  jest  that  onct — 

onct  we  was  boys,  onct  we  was  boys — with  legs. 

But  never  mind.    An  old  boy  ain't  a  bugle. 

Onct,  though,  he  was:  and  all  God's  life  a-snortin' 

outn  his  nostrils,  and  Hell's  mischief  laughin' 

outn  his  eyes,  and  all  the  mornin'  winds 

ablowin'  Glory  Hallelujahs,  like 

brass  music,  from  his  mouth. — But  never  mind! 

'T  ain't  nothin':  boys  in  blue  ain't  bugles  now. 

Old  brass  gits  rusty,  and  old  underpinnin' 

gits  rotten,  and  trapped  chipmunks  lose  their  legs. 

[With  smoldering  fire.] 
But  jest  the  same — 
[His  face  convulses  and  he  cries  out,  terribly — straining  in 

his  chair  to  rise.] 

— for  holy  God,  that  band! 
Why  don't  they  stop  that  band! 
Polly  [going]. 

I'll  run  and  tell  them. 
Sit  quiet,  dear.     I'll  be  right  back. 

[Glancing  back  anxiously,  Polly  disappears  outside.     The 
approaching    band    begins    to    play    "  John    Brown  s 
Body."     Link  sits  motionless,  gripping  his  chair.] 
Link.  Set  quiet! 

Dead  folks  don't  set,  and  livin'  folks  kin  stand, 

and  Link — he  kin  set  quiet. — Goda'mighty, 

how  kin  he  set,  and  them  a-marchin'  thar 

with  old  John  Brown?    Lord  God,  you  ain't  forgot 


GETTYSBURG  109 

the  boys,  have  ye?  the  boys,  how  they  come  marchin' 

home  to  ye,  live  and  dead,  behind  old  Brow^n, 

a-singin'  Glory  to  ye!    Jest  look  down: 

thar's  Gettysburg,  thar's  Cemetery  Ridge: 

don't  say  ye  disremember  them!    And  thar's 

the  colors:  Look,  he's  picked  'em  up — the  sergeant's 

blood  splotched  'em  some — but  thar  they  be,  still  flyin' ! 

Link  done  that:  Link — the  spry  boy,  what  they  call 

Chipmunk:  you  ain't  forgot  his  double-step, 

have  ye?     [J gain  he  cries  out,  beseechingly.]  — 

My  God,  why  do  You  keep  on  marchin* 

and  leave  him  settin'  here? 

[To  the  music  outside,  the  voices  of  children  begin  to 
sing  the  words  of  "  John  Brown  s  Body."  At  the 
sound.  Link's  face  becomes  transformed  with  emo- 
tion, his  body  shakes  and  his  shoulders  heave  and 
straighten.] 

No ! — I — wont — set ! 

[Wresting  himself  mightily,  he  rises  from  his  chair,  and 

stands.] 

Them  are  the  boys  that  marched  to  Kingdom-Come 

ahead  of  us,  but  we  keep  fallin'  in  line. 

Them  voices — Lord,  I  guess  you've  brought  along 

your  Sunday  choir  of  young  angel  folks 

to  help  the  boys  out. 

[Following  the  music  with  swaying  arms.] 
Glory! — Never  mind 
me  singin':  you  kin  drown  me  out.     But  I'm 
goin'  t'  jine  in,  or  bust! 

[Joining  with  the  children  s  voices,  he  moves  unconsciously 
along  the  edge  of  the  woodpile.  With  stiff  steps — his 
one  hand  leaning  on  the  hoe,  his  other  reached  as  to 
unseen  hands,  that  draw  him — he  totters  toward  the 
sunlight  and  the  green  lawn,  at  back.  As  he  does  so, 
his  thin,  cracked  voice  takes  up  the  battle-hymn  luhere 
the  children's  are  singing  it:] 

" — a-mold'rin'  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mold'rin'  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mold'rin'  in  the  grave, 

But  his  soul  goes — " 


no  GETTYSBURG 

[Suddenly  he  stops,  aware  that  he  is  walking,  and  cries 
aloud,  astounded:^ 

Lord,  Lord,  my  legs! 
Whar  did  Ye  git  my  legs? 

{Shaking  luith  delight,  he  drops  his  hoe,  seizes  up  the  little 
flag  from  the  woodpile,  and  waves  it  joyously.] 

I'm  comin',  boys! 
Link's  loose  agin:  Chipmunk  has  sprung  his  trap. 
[fVith  tottering  gait,  he  climbs  the  little   mound  in  the 

woodpile.] 
Now,  boys,  three  cheers  for  Cemetery  Ridge! 
Jine  in,  jine  in! 

[Swinging  the  flag.] 
Hooray ! — Hooray ! — Hooray ! 
[Outside,  the  music  grows  louder,  and  the  voices  of  old 

men  and  children  sing  martially  to  the  brass  music. 
With  his  final  cheer.  Link  stumbles  down  from  the  mound, 
brandishes  in  one  hand  his  hat,  in  the  other  the  little 
flag,  and  stumps  off  toward  the  approaching  proces- 
sion into  the  sunlight,  joining  his  old  cracked  voice, 
jubilant,  with  the  singers:] 

" — ry  hallelujah, 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah. 
His  truth  is  marchin'  on  I  " 


[the  curtain.] 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  * 
A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 

By 

A.  A.  MILNE 


*  Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby  warned  that  this  play  is 
fully  copyrighted  under  the  existing  laws  of  the  United  States,  and  no 
one  IS  allowed  to  produce  this  play  without  first  having  obtained  per- 
mission of  Samuel  French.  28  West  ^8  Street,  New  York, 


Alan  Alexander  Milne  was  born  January  i8,  1882.  He 
was  a  student  at  Westminster  School,  the  library  of  which  is 
familiar  ground  to  every  reader  of  Irving's  Sketch  Book.  From 
there  he  proceeded  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  On  his 
graduation,  he  went  into  journalism  in  London.  He  was  as- 
sistant editor  of  Punch  from  1906  to  19 14.  During  the  War 
he  was  a  lieutenant  in  the  Fourth  Royal  Warwickshire  Regi- 
ment. In  the  introduction  to  his  volume  of  First  Plays,  in  which 
Wurzel-Flummery  appears,  he  gives  the  following  whimsical 
account  of  his  career  as  a  dramatist:  "These  five  plays  [The 
Lucky  One,  The  Boy  Comes  Home,  Belinda,  The  Red  Feather, 
Wurzel-Flummery^  were  written  in  the  order  in  which  they 
appear  now,  during  the  years  19 16  and  19 17.  They  would 
hardly  have  been  written  had  it  not  been  for  the  War,  although 
only  one  of  them  is  concerned  with  that  subject.  To  his  other 
responsibilities  the  Kaiser  now  adds  this  volume. 

"  For  these  plays  were  not  the  work  of  a  professional  writer, 
but  the  recreation  of  a  (temporary)  professional  soldier.  Play- 
writing  is  a  luxury  to  a  journalist,  as  insidious  as  golf  and 
much  more  expensive  in  time  and  money.  When  an  article  is 
written,  the  financial  reward  (and  we  may  as  well  live  as  not) 
is  a  matter  of  certainty.  A  novelist,  too,  even  if  he  is  not  in 
'  the  front  rank  ' — but  I  never  heard  of  one  who  wasn't — can 
at  least  be  sure  of  publication.  But  when  a  play  is  written, 
there  is  no  certainty  of  anything  save  disillusionment. 

"  To  write  a  play,  then,  while  I  was  a  journalist  seemed  to 
me  a  depraved  proceeding,  almost  as  bad  as  going  to  Lord's 
in  the  morning.  I  thought  I  could  write  one  (we  all  think  we 
can),  but  I  could  not  afford  so  unpromising  a  gamble.  But 
once  in  the  Army  the  case  was  altered.  No  duty  now  urged 
me  to  write.  My  job  was  soldiering,  and  my  spare  time  was 
my  own  affair.  Other  subalterns  played  bridge  and  golf;  that 
was  one  way  of  amusing  oneself.  Another  way  was — why 
not? — to  write  plays. 

"  So  we  began  with  Wurzel-Flummery.  I  say  '  we,'  because 
another  is  mixed  up  in  this  business  even  more  seriously  than 
the  Kaiser.     She  wrote;  I  dictated.    And  if  a  particularly  fine 

113 


114  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

evening  drew  us  out  for  a  walk  along  the  byways — where  there 
was  no  saluting,  and  one  could  smoke  a  pipe  without  shocking 
the  Duke  of  Cambridge — then  it  was  to  discuss  the  last  scene 
and  to  wonder  what  would  happen  in  the  next.  We  did  not 
estimate  the  money  or  publicity  which  might  come  from  this 
new  venture;  there  has  never  been  any  serious  thought  of  mak- 
ing money  by  my  bridge-playing,  nor  desire  for  publicity  when 
I  am  trying  to  play  golf.  But  secretly,  of  course,  we  hoped. 
It  was  that  which  made  it  so  much  more  exciting  than  any 
other  game. 

"Our  hopes  were  realized  to  the  following  extent: 
"  Wurzel-Flummery  was  produced  by  Mr.  Dion  Boucicault 
at  the  New  Theatre  in  April,  19 17.  It  was  originally  written 
in  three  acts,  in  which  form  it  was  shown  to  one  or  two 
managers.  At  the  beginning  of  191 7  I  was  offered  the  chance 
of  production  in  a  triple  bill  if  I  cut  it  down  into  a  two-act 
play.  To  cut  even  a  line  is  painful,  but  to  cut  thirty  pages  of 
one's  first  comedy,  slaughtering  whole  characters  on  the  way, 
has  at  least  a  certain  morbid  fascination.  It  appeared,  there- 
fore, in  two  acts;  and  one  kindly  critic  embarrassed  us  by 
saying  that  a  lesser  artist  would  have  written  it  in  three  acts, 
and  most  of  the  other  critics  annoyed  us  by  saying  that  a  greater 
artist  would  have  written  it  in  one  act.  However,  I  amused 
myself  some  months  later  by  slaying  another  character — the 
office-boy,  no  less — thereby  getting  it  down  to  one  act,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  that  the  one-act  version  was,  after  all,  the 
best.  ...  At  least,  I  think  it  is.  .  .  .  At  any  rate,  that  is 
the  version  I  am  printing  here;  but,  as  can  be  imagined,  I  am 
rather  tired  of  the  whole  business  by  now,  and  I  am  beginning 
to  wonder  if  anyone  ever  did  take  the  name  of  Wurzel- 
Flummery  at  all.  Possibly  the  whole  thing  is  an  invention." 
Wurzel-Flummery  was  first  produced  in  this  country  at  the 
Arts  and  Crafts  Theatre  in  Detroit ;  recently  it  was  acted  again 
by  The  Players  of  St.  Louis. 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

CHARACTERS 

Robert  Crawshaw,  M.P, 
Margaret  Crawshaw  (his  wife). 
Viola  Crawshaw  (his  daughter). 
Richard  Meriton,  M.P. 
Denis  Clifton. 

SCENE. — Robert  Crawshaw's  town  house.    Morning. 

It  is  a  June  day  before  the  War  in  the  morning-room  of 
Robert  Crawshaw's  town  house.  Entering  it  with  our 
friend  the  house-agentj  our  attention  would  first  be  called 
to  the  delightful  club  fender  round  the  fireplace.  On  one 
side  of  this  a  Chesterfield  sofa  comes  out  at  right  angles. 
In  a  corner  of  the  sofa  Miss  Viola  Crawshaw  is  sitting, 
deep  in  "  The  Times."  The  house-agent  would  hesitate 
to  catalogue  her,  but  we  notice  for  ourselves,  before  he 
points  out  the  comfortable  armchair  opposite,  that  she  is 
young  and  pretty.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  and  facing 
the  fireplace  is  (observe)  a  solid  knee-hole  writing-table, 
covered  with  papers  and  books  of  reference,  and  supported 
by  a  chair  at  the  middle  and  another  at  the  side.  The  rest 
of  the  furniture,  and  the  books  and  pictures  round  the 
walls,  we  must  leave  until  another  time,  for  at  this  mo- 
ment the  door  behind  the  sofa  opens  and  Richard 
Meriton  comes  in.  He  looks  about  thirty-five,  has  a 
clean-shaven  intelligent  face,  and  is  dressed  in  a  dark  tweed 
suit.  We  withdraw  hastily,  as  he  comes  behind  ViOLA  and 
puts  his  hands  over  her  eyes. 

Richard.    Three  guesses  who  it  is. 

Viola    {putting  her  hands  over  his\.     The  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury. 

"5 


ii6  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

Richard.    No. 

Viola.    The  Archbishop  of  York. 

Richard.  Fortunately  that  exhausts  the  archbishops.  Now, 
then,  your  last  guess. 

Viola.    Richard  Meriton,  M.P. 

Richard.  Wonderful!  [He  kisses  the  top  of  her  head 
lightly  and  goes  round  to  the  club  fender,  where  he  sits  with 
his  back  to  the  fireplace.]  How  did  you  know?  [He  begins 
to  fill  a  pipe.] 

Viola  [smiling].    Well,  it  couldn't  have  been  father. 

Richard.  N-no,  I  suppose  not.  Not  just  after  breakfast 
anyway.     Anything  in  the  paper? 

Viola.     There's  a  letter  from  father  pointing  out  that 

Richard.  I  never  knew  such  a  man  as  Robert  for  point- 
ing out. 

Viola.    Anyhow,  it's  in  big  print. 

Richard.    It  would  be. 

Viola.    You  are  very  cynical  this  morning,  Dick. 

Richard.    The  sausages  were  cold,  dear. 

Viola.  Poor  Dick!  Oh,  Dick,  I  wish  you  were  on  the 
same  side  as  father. 

Richard.  But  he's  on  the  wrong  side.  Surely  I've  told 
you  that  before.  .  .  .  Viola,  do  you  really  think  it  would 
make  a  difference? 

Viola.  Well,  you  know  what  he  said  about  you  at  Basing- 
stoke the  other  day. 

Richard.    No,  I  don't,  really. 

Viola.  He  said  that  your  intellectual  arrogance  was  only 
equaled  by  your  spiritual  instability.  I  don't  quite  know  what 
it  means,  but  it  doesn't  sound  the  sort  of  thing  you  want  in  a 
son-in-law. 

Richard.  Still,  it  was  friendly  of  him  to  go  right  away  to 
Basingstoke  to  say  it.     Anyhow,  you  don't  believe  it. 

Viola.     Of  course  not. 

Richard.    And  Robert  doesn't  really. 

Viola.    Then  why  does  he  say  it? 

Richard.    Ah,  now  you're  opening  up  very  grave  questions. 
The   whole   structure   of   the   British   Constitution   rests   upon 
Robert's  right  to  say  things  like  that  at  Basingstoke.    .    .    . 
But  really,  darling,  we're  very  good  friends.     He's  always  ask- 
ing my  advice  about  things — he  doesn't  take  it,  of  course,  but 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  117 

still  he  asks  it;  and  it  was  awfully  good  of  him  to  insist  on  my 
staying  here  while  my  flat  was  being  done  up.  [Seriously.]  I 
bless  him  for  that.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  last  week  I 
should  never  have  known  you.  You  were  just  "  Viola  " — 
the  girl  I'd  seen  at  odd  times  since  she  was  a  child;  and  now — 
oh,  why  won't  you  let  me  tell  your  father?  I  hate  it  like 
this. 

Viola.  Because  I  love  you,  Dick,  and  because  I  know 
father.  He  would,  as  they  say  in  novels,  show  you  the  door. 
[Smilinff.]  And  I  want  you  this  side  of  the  door  for  a  little 
bit  longer. 

Richard  [firmly].    I  shall  tell  him  before  I  go. 

Viola  [pleadinffly].  But  not  till  then;  that  gives  us  two 
more  days.  You  see,  darling,  it's  going  to  take  me  all  I  know 
to  get  round  him.  You  see,  apart  from  politics  you're  so  poor 
— and  father  hates  poor  people. 

Richard   [viciously].     Damn  money! 

Viola  [thoughtfully].  I  think  that's  what  father  means  by 
spiritual  instability. 

Richard.  Viola!  [He  stands  up  and  holds  out  his  arms  to 
her.    She  goes  to  him  and — ]     Oh,  Lord,  look  out! 

Viola   [reaching  across  to  the  mantelpiece].     Matches? 

Richard.  Thanks  very  much.  [He  lights  his  pipe  as 
Robert  Crawshaw  comes  in.  Crawshaw  is  forty-five,  but 
his  closely-trimmed  mustache  and  whiskers,  his  inclination  to 
stoutness,  and  the  loud  old-gentlemanly  style  in  trousers  which 
he  affects  with  his  morning-coat,  make  him  look  older,  and, 
what  is  more  important,  the  Pillar  of  the  State  which  he  un- 
doubtedly is.] 

Crawshaw.    Good-morning,  Richard.    Down  at  last? 

Richard.  Good-morning.  I  did  warn  you,  didn't  I,  that 
I  was  bad  at  breakfasts? 

Crawshaw.     Viola,  where's  your  mother? 

Viola  [making  for  the  door].  I  don't  know,  father;  do 
you  want  her? 

Crawshaw.     I  wish  to  speak  to  her. 

Viola.  All  right,  I'll  tell  her.  [She  goes  out.  Richard 
picks  up  "  The  Times  "  and  sits  down  again.] 

Crawshaw  [sitting  down  in  a  business-like  way  at  his  desk], 
Richard,  why  don't  you  get  something  to  do? 

Richard.    My  dear  fellow,  I've  only  just  finished  breakfast. 


1 1 8  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

Crawshaw.  I  mean  generally.  And  apart,  of  course,  from 
your — ah — work  in  the  House. 

Richard  [a  trifle  cool\.    I  have  something  to  do. 

Crawshaw.  Oh,  reviewing.  I  mean  something  serious. 
You  should  get  a  directorship  or  something  in  the  City. 

Richard.    I  hate  the  City. 

Crawshaw.  Ah !  there,  my  dear  Richard,  is  that  intellectual 
arrogance  to  which  I  had  to  call  attention  the  other  day  at 
Basingstoke. 

Richard  [dryly'\.    Yes,  so  Viola  was  telling  me. 

Crawshaw.  You  understood,  my  dear  fellow,  that  I  meant 
nothing  personal.  \Clearing  his  throat.^  It  is  justly  one  of 
the  proudest  boasts  of  the  Englishman  that  his  political  enmities 
are  not  allowed  to  interfere  with  his  private  friendships. 

Richard  [carelessly\.  Oh,  I  shall  go  to  Basingstoke  myself 
one  day. 

Enter  Margaret.  Margaret  has  been  in  love  with  Robert 
Crawshaw  for  twenty-five  years,  the  last  twenty-four 
years  from  habit.  She  is  small,  comfortable,  and  rather 
foolish;  you  would  certainly  call  her  a  dear,  but  you  might 
sometimes  call  her  a  poor  dear. 

Margaret.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Meriton.  I  do  hope  your 
breakfast  was  all  right. 

Richard.    Excellent,  thank  you. 

Margaret.    That's  right.    Did  you  want  me,  Robert? 

Crawshaw  {obviously  uncomfortable].  Yes — er — h'r'm — 
Richard — er — what  are  your — er — plans? 

Richard.     Is  he  trying  to  get  rid  of  me,  Mrs.  Crawshaw? 

Margaret.    Of  course  not.     [To  Robert.]    Are  you,  dear? 

Crawshaw.  Perhaps  we  had  better  come  into  my  room, 
Margaret.     We  can  leave  Richard  here  with  the  paper. 

Richard.    No,  no;  I'm  going. 

Crawshaw  [going  to  the  door  with  him].  I  have  some  par- 
ticular business  to  discuss.  If  you  aren't  going  out,  I  should 
like  to  consult  you  in  the  matter  afterwards. 

Richard.    Right.     [He  goes  out.] 

Crawshaw.  Sit  down,  Margaret.  I  have  some  extraor- 
dinary news  for  you. 

Margaret  [sitting  down].    Yes,  Robert? 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  1 19 

Crawshaw.  This  letter  has  just  come  by  hand.  [He  reads 
it.]  "  199,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  Dear  Sir,  I  have  the  pleasure 
to  inform  you  that  under  the  will  of  the  late  Mr.  Antony 
Clifton  you  are  a  beneficiary  to  the  extent  of  £50,000." 

Margaret.    Robert ! 

Crawshaw.  Wait!  "A  trifling  condition  is  attached — 
namely,  that  you  should  take  the  name  of — Wurzel-Flummery." 

Margaret.    Robert ! 

Crawshaw.  "  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  your  obedient 
servant,  Denis  Clifton."  [He  folds  the  letter  up  and  puts  it 
away.] 

Margaret.  Robert,  whoever  is  he?  I  mean  the  one  who's 
left  you  the  money? 

Crawshaw  [calmly].  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea,  Mar- 
garet. Doubtless  we  shall  find  out  before  long.  I  have  asked 
Mr.  Denis  Clifton  to  come  and  see  me. 

Margaret.  Leaving  you  fifty  thousand  pounds!  Just 
fancy! 

Crawshaw.    Wurzel-Flummery ! 

Margaret.  We  can  have  the  second  car  now,  dear,  can't 
we?  And  what  about  moving?  You  know  you  always  said 
you  ought  to  be  in  a  more  central  part.  Mr.  Robert  Craw- 
shaw, M.P.,  of  Curzon  Street  sounds  so  much  more — more 
Cabinety. 

Crawshaw.  Mr.  Robert  Wurzel-Flummery,  M.P.,  of 
Curzon  Street — I  don't  know  what  that  sounds  like. 

Margaret.  I  expect  that's  only  a  legal  vi^ay  of  putting  it, 
dear.  They  can't  really  expect  us  to  change  our  name  to — 
Wurzley-Fothergill. 

Crawshaw.    Wurzel-Flummery. 

Margaret.  Yes,  dear,  didn't  I  say  that?  I  am  sure  you 
could  talk  the  solicitor  round — this  Mr.  Denis  Clifton.  After 
all,  it  doesn't  matter  to  him  what  we  call  ourselves.  Write 
him  one  of  your  letters,  dear. 

Crawshaw,  You  don't  seem  to  apprehend  the  situation, 
Margaret. 

Margaret.    Yes,  I  do,  dear.    This  Mr. — Mr. — 

Crawshaw.    Antony  Clifton. 

Margaret.  Yes,  he's  left  you  fifty  thousand  pounds,  to- 
gether with  the  name  of  Wurzley-Fothergill- 

Crawshaw.     Wurzel — oh,  well,  never  mind. 


I20  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

Margaret.  Yes,  well,  you  tell  the  solicitor  that  you  will 
take  the  fifty  thousand  pounds,  but  you  don't  want  the  name. 
It's  too  absurd,  when  everybody  knows  of  Robert  Crawshaw, 
M.P.,  to  expect  you  to  call  yourself  Wurzley-Fothergill. 

Crawshaw  [impatiently].  Yes,  yes.  The  point  is  that  this 
Mr.  Clifton  has  left  me  the  money  on  condition  that  I  change 
my  name.     If  I  don't  take  the  name,  I  don't  take  the  money. 

Margaret.     But  is  that  legal? 

Crawshaw.  Perfectly.  It  is  often  done.  People  change 
their  names  on  succeeding  to  some  property. 

Margaret.  I  thought  it  was  only  when  your  name  was 
Moses  and  you  changed  it  to  Talbot. 

Crawshaw  [to  himself].    Wurzel-Flummery! 

Margaret.  I  wonder  why  he  left  you  the  money  at  all. 
Of  course  it  was  very  nice  of  him,  but  if  5'ou  didn't  know 
him —     Why  do  you  think  he  did,  dear? 

Crawshaw.  I  know  no  more  than  this  letter.  I  suppose 
he  had — ah — followed  my  career,  and  was — ah — interested  in 
it,  and  being  a  man  with  no  relations,  felt  that  he  could — ah — 
safely  leave  this  money  to  me.  No  doubt  Wurzel-Flummery 
was  his  mother's  maiden  name,  or  the  name  of  some  other  friend 
even  dearer  to  him;  he  wished  the  name — ah — perpetuated, 
perhaps  even  recorded  not  unworthily  in  the  history  of  our 
country,  and — ah — made  this  will  accordingly.  In  a  way  it 
is  a  kind  of — ah — sacred  trust. 

Margaret.    Then,  of  course,  you'll  accept  it,  dear? 

Crawshaw,  It  requires  some  consideration,  I  have  my 
career  to  think  about,  my  duty  to  my  country. 

Margaret.  Of  course,  dear.  Money  is  a  great  help  in 
politics,  isn't  it? 

Crawshaw.  Money  wisely  spent  is  a  help  in  any  profes- 
sion. The  view  of  riches  which  socialists  and  suchlike  people 
profess  to  take  is  entirely  ill-considered.  A  rich  man,  who 
spends  his  money  thoughtfully,  is  serving  his  country  as  nobly 
as  anybody. 

Margaret.  Yes,  dear.  Then  you  think  we  could  have  that 
second  car  and  the  house  in  Curzon  Street? 

Crawshaw.  We  must  not  be  led  away.  Fifty  thousand 
pounds,  properly  invested,  is  only  two  thousand  a  year.  When 
you  have  deducted  the  income-tax — and  the  tax  on  unearned 
income  is  extremely  high  just  now — 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  121 

Margaret.  Oh,  but  surely  if  we  have  to  call  ourselves 
Wurzel-Flummery  it  would  count  as  earned  income. 

Crawshaw.  I  fear  not.  Strictly  speaking,  all  money  is 
earned.  Even  if  it  is  left  to  j^ou  by  another,  it  is  presumably 
left  to  you  in  recognition  of  certain  outstanding  qualities  which 
you  possess.  But  Parliament  takes  a  different  view.  I  do  not 
for  a  moment  say  that  fifty  thousand  pounds  would  not  be 
welcome.  Fifty  thousand  pounds  is  certainly  not  to  be  sneezed 
at — 

Margaret.    I  should  think  not,  indeed ! 

Crawshaw  [unconsciously  rising  from  his  chair].  And 
without  this  preposterous  condition  attached  I  should  be  pleased 
to  accept  this  trust,  and  I  would  endeavor,  Mr,  Speaker — 
[He  sits  down  again  suddenly.]  I  would  endeavor,  Margaret, 
to  carry  it  out  to  the  best  of  my  poor  ability.  But — Wurzel- 
Flummery  ! 

Margaret.  You  would  soon  get  used  to  it,  dear.  I  had  to 
get  used  to  the  name  of  Crawshaw  after  I  had  been  Debenham 
for  twenty-five  years.  It  is  surprising  how  quickly  it  comes  to 
you.  I  think  I  only  signed  my  name  Margaret  Debenham  once 
after  I  was  married. 

Crawshaw  [kindly].  The  cases  are  rather  different,  Mar- 
garet. Naturally  a  woman,  who  from  her  cradle  looks  forward 
to  the  day  when  she  will  change  her  name,  cannot  have  this 
feeling  for  the — ah — honor  of  his  name,  which  every  man — 
ah — feels.  Such  a  feeling  is  naturally  more  present  in  my  own 
case  since  I  have  been  privileged  to  make  the  name  of  Craw- 
shaw in  some  degree — ah — well-known,  I  might  almost  say 
famous. 

Margaret  [wistfully].  I  used  to  be  called  "the  beautiful 
Miss  Debenham  of  Leamington."  Everybody  in  Leamington 
knew  of  me.  Of  course,  I  am  very  proud  to  be  Mrs.  Robert 
Crawshaw. 

Crawshaw  [getting  up  and  walking  over  to  the  fireplace]. 
In  a  way  it  would  mean  beginning  all  over  again.  It  is  half 
the  battle  in  politics  to  get  your  name  before  the  public.  "  Who- 
ever is  this  man  Wurzel-Flummery?"  people  will  say. 

Margaret.  Anyhow,  dear,  let  us  look  on  the  bright  side. 
Fifty  thousand  pounds  is  fifty  thousand  pounds. 

Crawshaw.  It  is,  Margaret.  And  no  doubt  it  is  my  duty 
to  accept  it.     But — well,  all  I  say  is  that  a  gentleman  would 


122  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

have  left  it  without  any  conditions.  Or  at  least  he  would 
merely  have  expressed  his  wish  that  I  should  take  the  name, 
without  going  so  far  as  to  enforce  it.  Then  I  could  have 
looked  at  the  matter  all  round  in  an  impartial  spirit. 

Margaret  [pursuing  her  thoughts^.  The  linen  is  marked 
R.  M.  C.  now.  Of  course,  we  should  have  to  have  that  altered. 
Do  you  think  R.  M.  F.  would  do,  or  would  it  have  to  be 
R.  M.  W.  hyphen  F.? 

Crawshaw.  What?  Oh — yes,  there  will  be  a  good  deal 
of  that  to  attend  to.  [Going  up  to  her.\  I  think,  Margaret, 
I  had  better  talk  to  Richard  about  this.  Of  course,  it  would 
be  absurd  to  refuse  the  money,  but — well,  I  should  like  to  have 
his  opinion. 

Margaret  [getting  up].  Do  you  think  he  would  be  very 
sympathetic,  dear?  He  makes  jokes  about  serious  things — like 
bishops  and  hunting — just  as  if  they  weren't  at  all  serious. 

Crawshaw.  I  wish  to  talk  to  him  just  to  obtain  a  new — 
ah — point  of  view.  I  do  not  hold  myself  in  the  least  bound 
to  act  on  anything  he  says.  I  regard  him  as  a  constituent, 
Margaret. 

Margaret.    Then  I  will  send  him  to  you. 

Crawshaw  [putting  his  hands  on  her  shoulders].  Mar- 
garet, what  do  you  really  feel  about  it? 

Margaret.    Just  whatever  you  feel,  Robert. 

Crawshaw  [kissing  her].  Thank  you,  Margaret;  you  are 
a  good  wife  to  me.  [She  goes  out.  Crawshaw  goes  to  his 
desk  and  selects  a  "  Who's  Who  "  from  a  little  pile  of  reference- 
books  on  it.  He  walks  round  to  his  chair,  sits  down  in  it  and 
begins  to  turn  the  pages,  murmuring  names  beginning  with 
"  C  "  to  himself  as  he  gets  near  the  place.  When  he  finds  it, 
he  murmurs  "  Clifton — that's  funny"  and  closes  the  book. 
Evidently  the  publishers  have  failed  him.] 

Enter  Richard.  ' 

Richard.  Well,  what's  the  news?  [He  goes  to  his  old  seat 
on  the  fender.]     Been  left  a  fortune? 

Crawshaw  [simply].  Yes.  ...  By  a  Mr.  Antony  Clifton. 
I  never  met  him  and  I  know  nothing  about  him. 

Richard  [surprised].  Not  really?  Well,  I  congratulate 
you.  [He  sighs.]  To  them  that  hath —  But  what  on  earth 
do  you  want  my  advice  about? 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  123 

Crawshaw.     There  is  a  slight  condition  attached. 

Richard.    Oho! 

Crawshaw.  The  condition  is  that  with  this  money — 
fifty  thousand  pounds — I  take  the  name  of — ah — ^Wurzel- 
Flummery. 

Richard  [jumping  up].    What! 

Crawshaw  [sulkily].  I  said  it  quite  distinctly — ^Wurzel- 
Flummery.  [Richard  in  an  awed  silence  walks  over  to  the 
desk  and  stands  looking  down  at  the  unhappy  Crawshaw.  He 
throws  out  his  left  hand  as  if  introducing  him.] 

Richard  [reverently].  Mr.  Robert  Wurzel-Flummery, 
M.P.,  one  of  the  most  prominent  of  our  younger  Parlia- 
mentarians. Oh,  you  .  .  .  oh !  .  .  .oh,  how  too  heavenly ! 
[He  goes  back  to  his  seat,  looks  up  and  catches  Crawshaw's 
eye,  and  breaks  down  altogether.] 

Crawshaw  [rising  with  dignity].  Shall  we  discuss  it  seri- 
ously, or  shall  we  leave  it? 

Richard.  How  can  we  discuss  a  name  like  Wurzel- 
Flummery  seriously?  "  Mr.  Wurzel-Flummery  in  a  few  well- 
chosen  words  seconded  the  motion."  .  .  .  "  '  Sir,'  went  on 
Mr.  Wurzel-Flummery  " —    Oh,  poor  Robert! 

Crawshaw  [sitting  down  sulkily].  You  seem  quite  certain 
that  I  shall  take  the  money. 

Richard.    I  am  quite  certain. 

Crawshaw.    Would  you  take  it? 

Richard  [hesitating].    Well — I  wonder. 

Crawshaw.  After  all,  as  William  Shakespeare  says,  "  What's 
-in  a  name?  " 

Richard.  I  can  tell  you  something  else  that  Shakespeare — 
William  Shakespeare — said.  [Dramatically  rising.]  Who  steals 
my  purse  with  fifty  thousand  in  it — steals  trash.  [In  his 
natural  voice.]  Trash,  Robert.  [Dramatically  again.]  But 
he  who  filches  from  me  my  good  name  of  Crawshaw  [lightly] 
and  substitutes  the  rotten  one  of  Wurzel — 

Crawshaw  [annoyed].  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Wurzel- 
Flummery  is  a  very  good  old  name.  I  seem  to  remember  some 
— ah — Hampshire  Wurzel-Flummeries.  It  is  a  very  laudable 
spirit  on  the  part  of  a  dying  man  to  wish  to — ah — perpetuate 
these  old  English  names.  It  all  seems  to  me  quite  natural  and 
straightforward.  If  I  take  this  money  I  shall  have  nothing  to 
be  ashamed  of. 


124  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

Richard.  I  see.  .  .  .  Look  here,  may  I  ask  you  a  few 
questions?  I  should  like  to  know  just  how  you  feel  about  the 
whole  business? 

Crawshaw  {complacently  folding  his  hands].    Go  ahead. 

Richard.  Suppose  a  stranger  came  up  in  the  street  to  you 
and  said,  "  My  poor  man,  here's  five  pounds  for  you,"  what 
would  you  do?  Tell  him  to  go  to  the  devil,  I  supppose, 
wouldn't  you? 

Crawshaw  [humorously].  In  more  parliamentary  lan- 
guage, perhaps,  Richard.  I  should  tell  him  I  never  took  money 
from  strangers. 

Richard.  Quite  so ;  but  that  if  it  were  ten  thousand  pounds, 
you  would  take  it? 

Crawshaw.    I  most  certainly  shouldn't. 

Richard.    But  if  he  died  and  left  it  to  you,  then  you  would? 

Crawshaw  [blandly].  Ah,  I  thought  you  were  leading  up 
to  that.    That,  of  course,  is  entirely  different. 

Richard.    Why  ? 

Crawshaw.  Well — ah — wouldn't  you  take  ten  thousand 
pounds  if  it  were  left  to  you  by  a  stranger? 

Richard.  I  daresay  I  should.  But  I  should  like  to  know 
why  it  would  seem  different. 

Crawshaw  [professionally].  Ha — hum!  Well — in  the  first 
place,  when  a  man  is  dead  he  wants  his  money  no  longer.  You 
can  therefore  be  certain  that  you  are  not  taking  anything  from 
him  which  he  cannot  spare.  And  in  the  next  place,  it  is  the 
man's  dying  wish  that  you  should  have  the  money.  To  refuse 
would  be  to  refuse  the  dead.  To  accept  becomes  almost  a 
sacred  duty. 

Richard.  It  really  comes  to  this,  doesn't  it?  You  won't 
take  it  from  him  when  he's  alive,  because  if  you  did,  you 
couldn't  decently  refuse  him  a  little  gratitude;  but  you  know 
that  it  doesn't  matter  a  damn  to  him  what  happens  to  his 
money  after  he's  dead,  and  therefore  you  can  take  it  without 
feeling  any  gratitude  at  all. 

Crawshaw.    No,  I  shouldn't  put  it  like  that. 

Richard  [smiling].     I'm  sure  you  wouldn't,  Robert. 

Crawshaw.     No  doubt  you  can  twist  it  about  so  that — 

Richard.  All  right,  we'll  leave  that  and  go  on  to  the  next 
point.  Suppose  a  perfect  stranger  offered  you  five  pounds  to 
part  your  hair  down  the  middle,  shave  off  your  mustache,  and 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  125 

wear  only  one  whisker — if  he  met  you  suddenly  in  the  street, 
seemed  to  dislike  your  appearance,  took  out  a  fiver  and  begged 
you  to  hurry  off  and  alter  yourself — of  course  you'd  pocket  the 
money  and  go  straight  to  your  barber's? 

Crawshaw.     Now  you  are  merely  being  offensive. 

Richard.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  should  have  said  that  if 
he  had  left  you  five  pounds  in  his  will? — well,  then  twenty 
pounds? — a  hundred  pounds? — a  thousand  pounds? — fifty  thou- 
sand pounds? —  [Jumping  up  excitedly.]  It's  only  a  ques- 
tion of  price — fifty  thousand  pounds,  Robert — a  pink  tie  with 
purple  spots,  hair  parted  across  the  back,  trousers  with  a  patch 
in  the  seat,  call  myself  Wurzel-Flummery — any  old  thing  you 
like,  you  can't  insult  me — anything  you  like,  gentlemen,  for  fifty 
thousand  pounds.  {Lowering  his  voice.]  Only  you  must  leave 
it  in  your  will,  and  then  I  can  feel  that  it  is  a  sacred  duty — 
a  sacred  duty,  my  lords  and  gentlemen.  [He  sinks  back  into 
the  sofa  and  relights  his  pipe.] 

Crawshaw  [rising  with  dignity].  It  is  evidently  useless  to 
prolong  this  conversation. 

Richard  [waving  him  down  again].  No,  no,  Robert;  I've 
finished.  I  just  took  the  other  side — and  I  got  carried  away. 
I  ought  to  have  been  at  the  Bar. 

Crawshaw.  You  take  such  extraordinary  views  of  things. 
You  must  look  facts  in  the  face,  Richard.  This  is  a  modern 
world,  and  we  are  modern  people  living  in  it.  Take  the 
matter-of-fact  view.  You  may  like  or  dislike  the  name  of — 
ah — Wurzel-Flummery,  but  you  can't  get  away  from  the  fact 
that  fifty  thousand  pounds  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at. 

Richard  [luist fully].  I  don't  know  why  people  shouldn't 
sneeze  at  money  sometimes.  I  should  like  to  start  a  society 
for  sneezing  at  fifty  thousand  pounds.  We'd  have  to  begin  in 
a  small  way,  of  course ;  we'd  begin  by  sneezing  at  five  pounds — 
and  work  up.  .  .  .  The  trouble  is  that  we're  all  inoculated 
in  our  cradles  against  that  kind  of  cold. 

Crawshaw  [pleasantly].  You  will  have  your  little  joke. 
But  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it  is  only  a  joke.  There 
can  be  no  serious  reason  why  I  should  not  take  this  money. 
And  I — ah — gather  that  you  don't  think  it  will  affect  my 
career  ? 

Richard  [carelessly].  Not  a  bit.  It'll  help  it.  It'll  get 
you  into  all  the  comic  papers. 


126  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

Margaret  comes  in  at  this  moment,  to  the  relief  of  Craw-i 
SHAW^  who  is  not  quite  certain  if  he  is  being  flattered  or 
insulted  again. 

Margaret.    Well,  have  you  told  him? 

Richard  {making  way  for  her  on  the  sofa^.  I  have  heard 
the  news,  Mrs.  Crawshaw.  And  I  have  told  Robert  my  opinion 
that  he  should  have  no  difficulty  in  making  the  name  of  Wurzel- 
Flummery  as  famous  as  he  has  already  made  that  of  Crawshaw. 
At  any  rate  I  hope  he  will. 

Margaret.     How  nice  of  you! 

Crawshaw.  Well,  it's  settled  then.  [Looking  at  his  watch.] 
This  solicitor  fellow  should  be  here  soon.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
we  can  manage  something  about —  Ah,  Viola,  did  you  want 
your  mother? 

Enter  Viola. 

Viola.  Sorry,  do  I  interrupt  a  family  meeting?  There's 
Richard,  so  it  can't  be  very  serious. 

Richard.    What  a  reputation! 

Crawshaw.    Well,  it's  over  now. 

Margaret.    Viola  had  better  know,  hadn't  she? 

Crawshaw.    She'll  have  to  know  some  time,  of  course. 

Viola  [sitting  down  firmly  on  the  sofa].  Of  course  she  will. 
So  you'd  better  tell  her  now.  I  knew  there  was  something 
exciting  going  on  this  morning. 

Crawshaw  [embarrassed].  Hum — ha —  [To  Margaret.] 
Perhaps  you'd  better  tell  her,  dear. 

Margaret  [simply  and  naturally].  Father  has  come  into 
some  property,  Viola.  It  means  changing  our  name  unfor- 
tunately.    But  your  father  doesn't  think  it  will  matter. 

Viola.     How  thrilling!    What  is  the  name,  mother? 

Margaret.  Your  father  says  it  is — dear  me,  I  shall  never 
remember  it. 

Crawshaw   [mumbling].     Wurzel-Flummery. 

Viola  [after  a  pause].  Dick,  you  tell  me,  if  nobody  else 
will. 

Richard.    Robert  said  it  just  now. 

Viola.  That  wasn't  a  name,  was  it?  I  thought  it  was  just 
a — do  say  it  again,  father. 

Crawshaw  [sulkily  but  plainly].    Wurzel-Flummery. 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  127 

Viola  [surprised].  Do  you  spell  it  like  that?  I  mean  like 
a  wurzel  and  like  flummery  ? 

Richard.    Exactly,  I  believe. 

Viola  [to  herself].  Miss  Viola  Wurzel-Flummery — I 
mean  they'd  have  to  look  at  you,  wouldn't  they?  [Bub- 
bling  over.]  Oh,  Dick,  what  a  heavenly  name!  Who  had 
it  first? 

Richard.  They  are  an  old  Hampshire  family — that  is  so, 
isn't  it,  Robert? 

Crawshaw  [annoyed].  I  said  I  thought  that  I  remembered 
— Margaret,  can  you  find  Burke  there?  [She  finds  it,  and  he 
buries  himself  in  the  families  of  the  great.] 

Margaret.  Well,  Viola,  you  haven't  told  us  how  you  like 
being  Miss  Wurzel-Flummery. 

Viola.  I  haven't  realized  myself  yet,  mummy.  I  shall  have 
to  stand  in  front  of  my  glass  and  tell  myself  who  I  am. 

Richard.  It's  all  right  for  you.  You  know  you'll  change 
your  name  one  day,  and  then  it  won't  matter  what  you've  been 
called  before. 

Viola  [secretly].  H'sh!  [5"^^  smiles  lovingly  at  him,  and 
then  says  aloud.]  Oh,  won't  it?  It's  got  to  appear  in  the 
papers,  "  A  marriage  has  been  arranged  between  Miss  Viola 
Wurzel-Flummery  ..."  and  everybody  will  say,  "  And  about 
time  too,  poor  girl." 

Margaret  [to  Crawshaw].    Have  you  found  it,  dear? 

Crawshaw  [resentfully].     This  is  the  19 12  edition. 

Margaret.  Still,  dear,  if  it's  a  very  old  family,  it  ought 
to  be  in  by  then. 

Viola.  I  don't  mind  how  old  it  is ;  I  think  it's  lovely.  Oh, 
Dick,  what  fun  it  will  be  being  announced !  Just  think  of  the 
footman  throwing  open  the  door  and  saying — 

Maid  [announcing].  Mr.  Denis  Clifton.  [There  is  a  little 
natural  confusion  as  Clifton  enters  jauntily  in  his  summer 
suiting  ivith  a  bundle  of  papers  under  his  arm.  Crawshaw 
goes  towards  him  and  shakes  hands.] 

Crawshaw.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Clifton?  Very  good  of 
you  to  come.  [Looking  doubtfully  at  his  clothes.]  Er — it  is 
Mr.  Denis  Clifton,  the  solicitor? 

CiA¥ioi>i  [cheerfully].  It  is.  I  must  apologize  for  not  look- 
ing the  part  more,  but  my  clothes  did  not  arrive  from  Clark- 
son's  in  time.    Very  careless  of  them  when  they  had  promised. 


128  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

And  my  clerk  dissuaded  me  from  the  side-whiskers  which  I  keep 
by  me  for  these  occasions. 

Crawshaw  [bewildered].  Ah  yes,  quite  so.  But  you  have — 
ah — full  legal  authority  to  act  in  this  matter? 

Clifton.     Oh,  decidedly.     Oh,  there's  no  question  of  that. 

Crawshaw  [introducinff].  My  wife — and  daughter. 
[Clifton  bows  gracefully.]  My  friend,  Mr.  Richard 
Meriton. 

Clifton  [happily].  Dear  me!  Mr.  Meriton  too!  This 
is  quite  a  situation,  as  we  say  in  the  profession. 

Richard  [amused  by  him].     In  the  legal  profession? 

Clifton.  In  the  theatrical  profession.  [Turning  to  Mar- 
garet.] I  am  a  writer  of  plays,  Mrs.  Crawshaw.  I  am  not 
giving  away  a  professional  secret  when  I  tell  you  that  most  of 
the  managers  in  London  have  thanked  me  for  submitting  my 
work  to  them. 

Crawshaw  [firmly].  I  understood,  Mr.  Clifton,  that  you 
were  the  solicitor  employed  to  wind  up  the  affairs  of  the  late 
Mr,  Antony  Clifton. 

Clifton.  Oh,  certainly.  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  my 
being  a  solicitor.  My  clerk,  a  man  of  the  utmost  integrity,  not 
to  say  probity,  would  give  me  a  reference.  I  am  in  the  books; 
I  belong  to  the  Law  Society.  But  my  heart  turns  elsewhere. 
Officially  I  have  embraced  the  profession  of  a  solicitor — 
[Frankly,  to  Mrs.  Crawshaw.]  But  you  know  what  these 
official  embraces  are. 

Margaret.  I'm  afraid —  [She  turns  to  her  husband  for 
assistance.  ] 

Clifton  [to  Richard].  Unofficially,  Mr.  Meriton,  I  am 
wedded  to  the  Muses. 

Viola.     Dick,  isn't  he  lovely? 

Crawshaw.  Quite  so.  But  just  for  the  moment,  Mr. 
Clifton,  I  take  it  that  we  are  concerned  with  legal  business. 
Should  I  ever  wish  to  produce  a  play,  the  case  would  be  dif- 
ferent. 

Clifton.  Admirably  put.  Pray  regard  me  entirely  as  the 
solicitor  for  as  long  as  you  wish.  [He  puts  his  hat  down  on  a 
chair  with  the  papers  in  it,  and  taking  off  his  gloves,  goes  on 
dreamily.]  Mr.  Denis  Clifton  was  superb  as  a  solicitor.  In 
spite  of  an  indifferent  make-up,  his  manner  of  taking  off  his 
gloves  and  dropping  them  into  his  hat —     [He  does  so.] 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  129 

Margaret  [to  Crawshaw].  I  think,  perhaps,  Viola 
and  I — 

Richard  [making  a  move  too'\.  We'll  leave  you  to  your 
business,  Robert. 

Clifton  [holding  up  his  hand].  Just  one  moment  if  I  may. 
I  have  a  letter  for  you,  Mr.  Meriton. 

Richard  [surprised].    For  me? 

Clifton.  Yes,  My  clerk,  a  man  of  the  utmost  integrity — 
oh,  but  I  said  that  before — he  took  it  round  to  your  rooms  this 
morning,  but  found  only  painters  and  decorators  there.  [He  is 
feeling  in  his  pockets  and  now  brings  the  letter  out.]  I  brought 
it  along,  hoping  that  Mr.  Crawshaw — but  of  course  I  never 
expected  anything  so  delightful  as  this.  [He  hands  over  the 
letter  with  a  bow.] 

Richard.    Thanks.     [He  puts  it  in  his  pocket.] 

Clifton.  Oh,  but  do  read  it  now,  won't  you?  [To  Mrs. 
Crawshaw.]  One  so  rarely  has  an  opportunity  of  being 
present  when  one's  own  letters  are  read.  I  think  the  habit  they 
have  on  the  stage  of  reading  letters  aloud  to  each  other  is  such 
a  very  delightful  one.  [Richard,  with  a  smile  and  a  shrug, 
has  opened  his  letter  while  Clifton  is  talking.] 

Richard.    Good  Lord ! 

Viola.     Dick,  what  is  it? 

Richard  [reading].  "  199,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  Dear 
Sir,  I  have  the  pleasure  to  inform  you  that  under  the  will  of 
the  late  Mr.  Antony  Clifton  you  are  a  beneficiary  to  the  extent 
of  £50,000." 

Viola.     Dick! 

Richard.  "  A  trifling  condition  is  attached — namely,  that 
you  should  take  the  name  of — Wurzel-Flummery."  [Clifton, 
with  his  hand  on  his  heart,  bows  gracefully  from  one  to  the 
other  of  them.] 

Crawshaw  [annoyed].  Impossible!  Why  should  he  leave 
any  money  to  you? 

Viola.    Dick!    How  wonderful! 

Margaret  [mildly].  I  don't  remember  ever  having  had  a 
morning  quite  like  this. 

Richard  [angrily].    Is  this  a  joke,  Mr.  Clifton? 

Clifton.  Oh,  the  money  is  there  all  right.  My  clerk,  a 
man  of  the  utmost — 

Richard.     Then  I  refuse  it.     I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with 


130  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

it.  I  won't  even  argue  about  ft.  [Tearing  the  letter  into 
bits.]  That's  what  I  think  of  your  money.  [He  stalks  indig- 
nantly from  the  room.] 

Viola.  Dick!  Oh,  but,  mother,  he  mustn't.  Oh,  I  must 
tell  him —     [She  hurries  after  him.] 

Margaret  [with  dignity].  Really,  Mr.  Clifton,  I'm  sur- 
prised at  you.     [She  goes  out  too.] 

Clifton  [looking  round  the  room].  And  now,  Mr.  Craw- 
shaw,  we  are  alone. 

Crawshaw.  Yes.  Well,  I  think,  Mr.  Clifton,  you  have 
a  good  deal  to  explain — 

Clifton.  My  dear  sir,  I'm  longing  to  begin.  I  have  been 
looking  forward  to  this  day  for  weeks.  I  spent  over  an  hour 
this  morning  dressing  for  it.  [He  takes  papers  from  his  hat 
and  moves  to  the  sofa.]  Perhaps  I  had  better  begin  from  the 
beginning. 

Crawshaw  [interested^  indicating  the  papers].  The  docu- 
ments in  the  case? 

Clifton.  Oh  dear,  no — just  something  to  carry  in  the  hand. 
It  makes  one  look  more  like  a  solicitor.  [Reading  the  title.] 
"  Watherston  v.  Towser — in  re  Great  Missenden  Canal  Com- 
pany." My  clerk  invents  the  titles;  it  keeps  him  busy.  He  is 
very  fond  of  Towser;  Towser  is  alwa)'s  coming  in.  [Frankly.] 
You  see,  Mr.  Crawshaw,  this  is  my  first  real  case,  and  I  only 
got  it  because  Antony  Clifton  is  my  uncle.  My  efforts  to  intro- 
duce a  little  picturesqueness  into  the  dull  formalities  of  the  law 
do  not  meet  with  that  response  that  one  would  have  expected. 

Crawshaw  [looking  at  his  watch].  Yes.  Well,  I'm  a  busy 
man,  and  if  you  could  tell  me  as  shortly  as  possible  why  your 
uncle  left  this  money  to  me,  and  apparently  to  Mr.  Meriton 
too,  under  these  extraordinary  conditions,  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  you. 

Clifton.  Say  no  more,  Mr.  Crawshaw;  I  look  forward  to 
being  entirely  frank  with  you.     It  will  be  a  pleasure. 

Crawshaw.  You  understand,  of  course,  my  position.  I 
think  I  may  say  that  I  am  not  without  reputation  in  the  coun- 
try; and  proud  as  I  am  to  accept  this  sacred  trust,  this  money 
which  the  late  Mr.  Antony  Clifton  has  seen  fit — [modestly] 
one  cannot  say  why — to  bequeath  to  me,  yet  the  use  of  the  name 
Wurzel-Flummery  would  be  excessively  awkward. 

Clifton  [cheerfully].    Excessively. 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  131 

Crawshaw.  My  object  in  seeing  you  was  to  inquire  if  it 
was  absolutely  essential  that  the  name  should  go  with  the 
money. 

Clifton.  Well  {thoughtfully],  you  may  have  the  name 
without  the  money  if  you  like.     But  you  must  have  the  name. 

Crawshaw  [disappointed].  Ah!  [Bravely.]  Of  course, 
I  have  nothing  against  the  name,  a  good  old  Hampshire  name — 

Clifton  [shocked].  My  dear  Mr.  Crawshaw,  you  didn't 
think — you  didn't  really  think  that  anybody  had  been  called 
Wurzel-Flummery  before?  Oh  no,  no.  You  and  Mr.  Meriton 
were  to  be  the  first,  the  founders  of  the  clan,  the  designers  of 
the  Wurzel-Flummery  sporran — 

Crawshaw.  What  do  you  mean,  sir?  Are  you  telling  me 
that  it  is  not  a  real  name  at  all? 

Clifton.  Oh,  it's  a  name  all  right.  I  know  it  is  because — 
er — /  made  it  up. 

Crawshaw  [outraged].  And  you  have  the  impudence  to 
propose,  sir,  that  I  should  take  a  made-up  name? 

Clifton  [soothingly].  Well,  all  names  are  made  up  some 
time  or  other.     Somebody  had  to  think  of — Adam. 

Crawshaw.  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Clifton,  that  I  do  not  allow 
this  trifling  with  serious  subjects. 

Clifton.  It's  all  so  simple,  really.  .  .  .  You  see,  my 
Uncle  Antony  was  a  rather  unusual  man.  He  despised  money. 
He  was  not  afraid  to  put  it  in  its  proper  place.  The  place  he 
put  it  in  was — er — a  little  below  golf  and  a  little  above  classical 
concerts.  If  a  man  said  to  him,  "  Would  you  like  to  make  fifty 
thousand  this  afternoon?"  he  would  say — well,  it  would  de- 
pend what  he  was  doing.  If  he  were  going  to  have  a  round 
at  Walton  Heath — 

Crawshaw.  It's  perfectly  scandalous  to  talk  of  money  in 
this  way. 

Clifton.  Well,  that's  how  he  talked  about  it.  But  he 
didn't  find  many  to  agree  with  him.  In  fact,  he  used  to  say 
that  there  was  nothing,  however  contemptible,  that  a  man 
would  not  do  for  money.  One  day  I  suggested  that  if  he  left 
a  legacy  with  a  sufficiently  foolish  name  attached  to  it,  some- 
body might  be  found  to  refuse  it.  He  laughed  at  the  idea. 
That  put  me  on  my  mettle.  "  Two  people,"  I  said ;  "  leave 
the  same  silly  name  to  two  people,  two  well-known  people, 
rival  politicians,  say,  men  whose  own  names  are  already  public 


132  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

propert}'.  Surely  they  wouldn't  both  take  it."  That  touched 
him.  "  Denis,  my  boy,  you've  got  it,"  he  said.  "  Upon  what 
vile  bodies  shall  we  experiment?"  We  decided  on  you  and 
Mr.  Meriton.  The  next  thing  was  to  choose  the  name.  I 
started  on  the  wrong  lines.  I  began  by  suggesting  names  like 
Porker,  Tosh,  Bugge,  Spiffkins — the  obvious  sort.    My  uncle — 

Crawshaw  {boiling  with  indignation^.  How  dare  you  dis- 
cuss me  with  your  uncle,  sir!  How  dare  you  decide  in  this 
cold-blooded  way  whether  I  am  to  be  called — ah — Tosh — or — 
ah — Porker ! 

Clifton.  My  uncle  wouldn't  hear  of  Tosh  or  Porker.  He 
wanted  a  humorous  name — a  name  he  could  roll  lovingly  round 
his  tongue — a  name  expressing  a  sort  of  humorous  contempt — 
Wurzel-Flummery !  I  can  see  now  the  happy  ruminating  smile 
which  came  so  often  on  my  Uncle  Antony's  face  in  those  latter 
months.  He  was  thinking  of  his  two  Wurzel-Flummeries.  I 
remember  him  saying  once — it  was  at  the  Zoo — what  a  pity 
it  was  he  hadn't  enough  to  divide  among  the  whole  Cabinet. 
A  whole  bunch  of  Wurzel-Flummeries;  it  would  have  been 
rather  jolly. 

Crawshaw.  You  force  me  to  say,  sir,  that  if  that  was  the 
way  you  and  your  uncle  used  to  talk  together  at  the  Zoo,  his 
death  can  only  be  described  as  a  merciful  intervention  of  Provi- 
dence. 

Clifton.  Oh,  but  I  think  he  must  be  enjoying  all  this 
somewhere,  you  know.  I  hope  he  is.  He  would  have  loved 
this  morning.  It  was  his  one  regret  that  from  the  necessities 
of  the  case  he  could  not  live  to  enjoy  his  own  joke;  but  he  had 
hopes  that  echoes  of  it  would  reach  him  wherever  he  might  be. 
It  was  with  some  such  idea,  I  fancy,  that  toward  the  end  he 
became   interested    in   spiritualism. 

Crawshaw  {rising  solemnly].  Mr.  Clifton,  I  have  no  in- 
terest in  the  present  whereabouts  of  your  uncle,  nor  in  what 
means  he  has  of  overhearing  a  private  conversation  between  you 
and  myself.  But  if,  as  you  irreverently  suggest,  he  is  listening 
to  us,  I  should  like  him  to  hear  this.  That,  in  my  opinion,  you 
are  not  a  qualified  solicitor  at  all,  that  you  never  had  an  uncle, 
and  that  the  whole  story  of  the  will  and  the  ridiculous  condi- 
tion attached  to  it  is  just  the  tomfool  joke  of  a  man  who,  by 
his  own  admission,  wastes  most  of  his  time  writing  unsuccessful 
farces.     And  I  propose— 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  133 

Clifton.  Pardon  my  interrupting.  But  you  said  farces. 
Not  farces,  comedies — of  a  whimsical  nature. 

Crawshaw.  Whatever  they  were,  sir,  I  propose  to  report 
the  whole  matter  to  the  Law  Society.  And  you  know  your  way 
out,  sir. 

Clifton.  Then  I  am  to  understand  that  you  refuse  the 
legacy,  Mr.  Crawshaw? 

Crawshaw   [startled].     What's  that? 

Clifton.  I  am  to  understand  that  you  refuse  the  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds? 

Crawshaw.  If  the  money  is  really  there,  I  most  certainly 
do  not  refuse  it. 

Clifton.  Oh,  the  money  is  most  certainly  there — and  the 
name.     Both  waiting  for  you. 

Crawshaw  [thumping  the  table].  Then,  sir,  I  accept  them. 
I  feel  it  my  duty  to  accept  them,  as  a  public  expression  of  con- 
fidence in  the  late  Mr.  Clifton's  motives.  I  repudiate  entirely 
the  motives  that  you  have  suggested  to  him,  and  I  consider  it 
a  sacred  duty  to  show  what  I  think  of  your  story  by  accepting 
the  trust  which  he  has  bequeathed  to  me.  You  will  arrange 
further  matters  with  my  solicitor.     Good-morning,  sir. 

Clifton  [to  himself  as  he  rises].  Mr.  Crawshaw  here  drank 
a  glass  of  water.  [To  Crawshaw.]  Mr.  Wurzel-Flummery, 
farewell.  May  I  express  the  parting  wish  that  your  future 
career  will  add  fresh  luster  to — my  name.  [To  himself  as  he 
goes  out.]  Exit  Mr.  Denis  Clifton  with  dignity.  [But  he  has 
left  his  papers  behind  him.  Crawshaw,  walking  indignantly 
back  to  the  sofa,  sees  the  papers  and  picks  them  up.] 

Crawshaw  [contemptuously].  "  Watherston  v.  Towser — 
in  re  Great  Missenden  Canal  Company."  Bah!  [He  tears 
them  up  and  throws  them  into  the  fire.  He  goes  back  to  his 
writing-table  and  is  seated  there  as  Viola,  followed  by 
Meriton,  comes  in.] 

Viola.  Father,  Dick  doesn't  want  to  take  the  money,  but 
I  have  told  him  that  of  course  he  must.     He  must,  mustn't  he? 

Richard.    We  needn't  drag  Robert  into  it,  Viola. 

Crawshaw.     If  Richard  has  the  very  natural  feeling  that 

it   would    be    awkward    for   me    if    there   were    two    Wurzel- 

Flummeries  in  the  House  of  Commons,  I  should  be  the  last  to 

interfere  with  his  decision.     In  any  case,  I  don't  see  what  con- 

\cern  it  is  of  yours,  Viola. 


134  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

Viola  [surprised].  But  how  can  we  get  married  if  he 
doesn't  take  the  money? 

Crawshaw  [hardly  understanding].  Married?  What  does 
this  mean,  Richard? 

Richard.  I'm  sorry  it  has  come  out  like  this.  We  ought 
to  have  told  you  before,  but  anyhow  we  were  going  to  have  told 
you  in  a  day  or  two.    Viola  and  I  want  to  get  married. 

Crawshaw.    And  what  did  you  want  to  get  married  on? 

Richard  [with  a  smile].     Not  very  much,  I'm  afraid. 

Viola.  We're  all  right  now,  father,  because  we  shall  have 
fifty  thousand  pounds. 

Richard   [sadly].     Oh,  Viola,  Viola! 

Crawshaw.  But  naturally  this  puts  a  very  different  com- 
plexion on  matters. 

Viola.    So  of  course  he  must  take  it,  mustn't  he,  father? 

Crawshaw.  I  can  hardly  suppose,  Richard,  that  you  expect 
me  to  entrust  my  daughter  to  a  man  who  is  so  little  provident 
for  himself  that  he  throws  away  fifty  thousand  pounds  be- 
cause of  some  fanciful  objection  to  the  name  which  goes 
with  it. 

Richard  [in  despair].    You  don't  understand,  Robert. 

Crawshaw.  I  understand  this,  Richard.  That  if  the  name 
is  good  enough  for  me,  it  should  be  good  enough  for  you.  You 
don't  mind  asking  Viola  to  take  your  name,  but  you  consider 
it  an  insult  if  you  are  asked  to  take  my  name. 

Richard  [miserably  to  Viola].  Do  you  want  to  be  Mrs. 
Wurzel-Fliimmery  ? 

Viola.  Well,  I'm  going  to  be  Miss  Wurzel-Flummery  any- 
how, darling. 

Richard  [beaten].  Heaven  help  me!  you'll  make  me  take 
it.     But  you'll  never  understand, 

Crawshaw  [stopping  to  administer  comfort  to  him  on  his 
way  out].  Come,  come,  Richard.  [Patting  him  on  the  shoul- 
der.] I  understand  perfectly.  All  that  you  were  saying  about 
money  a  little  while  ago — it's  all  perfectly  true,  it's  all  just 
what  I  feel  myself.  But  in  practice  we  have  to  make  allow- 
ances sometimes.  We  have  to  sacrifice  our  ideals  for — ah — 
others.  I  shall  be  very  proud  to  have  you  for  a  son-in-law, 
and  to  feel  that  there  will  be  the  two  of  us  in  Parliament  to- 
gether upholding  the  honor  of  the — ah — name.  And  perhaps 
now  that  we  are  to  be  so  closely  related,  you  may  come  to  feel 


WURZEL-FLUMMERY  i35 

some  day  that  your  views  could  be — ah — more  adequately  put 
forward  from  my  side  of  the  House. 

Richard.    Go  on,  Robert ;  I  deserve  it. 

Crawshaw.  Well,  well!  Margaret  will  be  interested  in 
our  news.  And  you  must  send  that  solicitor  a  line — or  per- 
haps a  telephone  message  would  be  better.  [He  goes  to  the 
door  and  turns  round  just  as  he  is  going  out.]  Yes,  I  think 
the  telephone,  Richard;  it  would  be  safer.     [Exit.] 

Richard  [holding  out  his  hands  to  Viola].  Come  here, 
Mrs.  Wurzel-Flummery. 

Viola.  Not  Mrs.  Wurzel-Flummery;  Mrs.  Dick.  And 
soon,  please,  darling.      [She  comes  to  him.] 

Richard  [shaking  his  head  sadly  at  her],  I  don't  know 
what  I've  done,  Viola.  [Suddenly.]  But  you're  worth  it.  [He 
kisses  her,  and  then  says  in  a  low  voice.]  And  God  help  me 
if  I  ever  stop  thinking  so! 

Enter  Mr.  Denis  Clifton.  He  sees  them,  and  walks  about 
very  tactfully  with  his  back  towards  them,  humming  to 
himself. 

Richard.     Hullo! 

Clifton  [to  himself].  Now  where  did  I  put  those  papers? 
[He  hums  to  himself  again.]  Now  where — oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon!     I  left  some  papers  behind. 

Viola.  Dick,  you'll  tell  him.  [As  she  goes  out,  she  says  to 
Clifton.]  Good-by,  Mr.  Clifton,  and  thank  you  for  writing 
such  nice  letters. 

Clifton.    Good-by,  Miss  Crawshaw. 

Viola.    Just  say  it  to  see  how  it  sounds. 

Clifton.     Good-by,  Miss  Wurzel-Flummery. 

Viola  [smiling  happily].  No,  not  Miss,  Mrs.  [She  goes 
out.] 

Clifton  [looking  in  surprise  from  her  to  him].  You  don't 
mean — 

Richard.  Yes;  and  I'm  taking  the  money  after  all,  Mr. 
Clifton. 

Clifton.  Dear  me,  what  a  situation!  [Thoughtfully  to 
himself.]  I  wonder  how  a  rough  scenario  would  strike  the 
managers. 

Richard.    Poor  Mr.  Clifton! 


136  WURZEL-FLUMMERY 

Clifton.    Why  poor? 

Richard.     You  missed  all  the  best  part.     You  didn't  hear 
what  I  said  to  Crawshaw  about  money  before  you  came. 

Clifton  [thoughtfully].  Oh!  was  it  very —  [Brighten- 
ing up.]  But  I  expect  Uncle  Antony  heard.  [After  a  pause.] 
Well,  I  must  be  getting  on.  I  wonder  if  you've  noticed  any 
important  papers  lying  about,  in  connection  with  the  Great 
Missenden  Canal  Company — a  most  intricate  case,  in  which  my 
clerk  and  I —  [He  has  murmured  himself  across  to  the  fire- 
place, and  the  fragments  of  his  important  case  suddenly  catch 
his  eye.  He  picks  up  one  of  the  fragments.]  Ah,  yes.  Well, 
I  shall  tell  my  clerk  that  we  lost  the  case.  He  will  be  sorry. 
He  had  got  quite  fond  of  that  canal.  [He  turns  to  go,  but 
first  says  to  Meriton.]  So  you're  taking  the  money,  Mr. 
Meriton? 

Richard.    Yes. 

Clifton.    And  Mr.  Crawshaw  too? 

Richard.   Yes. 

Clifton  [to  himself  as  he  goes  out].  They  are  both  taking 
it.  [He  stops  and  looks  up  to  Uncle  Antony  with  a  smile.] 
Good  old  Uncle  Antony— Ae  knew — he  knew!  [Meriton 
stands  watching  him  as  he  goes.] 


[the  curtain.] 


MAID  OF  FRANCE  * 

By 
HAROLD  BRIGHOUSE 


*  Copyright,  1918,  by  Gowans  and  Gray.  All  rights  reserved. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  and  by  special  arrangement  with  Harold 
Brighouse.  Also  printed  in  the  United  States  by  Leroy  Phillips, 
Boston.  Maid  of  France  is  fully  protected  by  copyright.  It  must 
not  be  performed  by  either  amateurs  or  professionals,  without  written 
permission.  For  such  permission  apply  to  Samuel  French,  28-:?o  West 
?8  Street,  New  York  City. 


Miss  Horniman  could  hardly  have  forese-^n  the  development 
of  a  Manchester  school  of  dramatists  as  the  outcome  of  her 
experiment  with  repertory  at  the  Gaiety  Theatre  in  Man- 
chester, because  her  purpose  was  to  produce  good  plays  irre- 
spective of  geographical  limitations.  But  the  fact  is  that  the 
project  was  a  source  of  real  inspiration  to  a  group  of  young 
Lancashire  writers  among  whom  may  be  mentioned  Allan 
Broome,  Stanley  Houghton,  and  Harold  Brighouse.  There  is 
no  plainer  illustration  of  the  relations  between  the  audience  and 
the  play,  or  between  the  theatre  and  the  play,  or  between  the 
actor  and  the  play  than  the  dramatic  activity  that  followed  the 
establishment  of  the  Abbey  Theatre  in  Dublin  and  the  setting 
up  of  Miss  Horniman's  experiment  in  Manchester. 

Although  in  this  collection,  Brighouse  is  represented  by  Maid 
of  France,  a  play  with  no  local  Lancashire  coloring,  first  given 
on  July  1 6,  1917,  in  London,  not  Manchester  (it  was  later 
produced  at  the  Greenwich  Village  Theatre  in  New  York,  be- 
ginning April  18,  19 1 8),  he  has  up  to  the  present  time  written 
seven  plays  about  Lancashire.  He  has  been  particularly  suc- 
cessful in  one-act  drama;  Lonesome  Like,  The  Price  of  Coal, 
and  Spring  in  Bloomsbury  have  been  popular  here  and  in  Eng- 
land. B.  Iden  Payne,  who  directed  productions  at  the  Gaiety 
Theatre  for  some  time,  says:  "  In  all  Harold  Brighouse's  plays 
there  is  in  the  acting  more  laughter  than  one  would  expect  from 
the  reading."  A  number  of  Brighouse's  plays  have  been  pub- 
lished;  in  the  introduction  to  the  latest  volume,^  he  writes: 
"  In  another  age  than  ours  play-books  were  a  favorite,  if  not 
the  only  form  of  light  reading.  .  .  .  The  reader  mentally 
producing  a  play  from  the  book  in  his  hand  looks  through  a 
magic  casement  at  what  he  gloriously  will  instead  of  through 
a  proscenium  arch  at  the  handiwork  of  a  mere  human  pro- 
ducer." This  playwright's  attitude  toward  the  reading  of  plays, 
with  its  appeal  to  the  imagination,  is  one  justification  for  a 
collection  like  the  present  one. 

1  Harold  Brighouse,  Three  Lancashire  Plays,  London  and  New 
York,  1920.    There  is  a  bibliographical  note  at  the  end. 

139 


I40  MAID  OF  FRANCE 

Brighouse  is  himself  a  Manchester  man,  having  been  born  in 
Eccles,  a  suburb,  on  July  26,  1882.  He  was  educated  at  the 
Manchester  Grammar  School.  Until  19 13  he  was  engaged  in 
business,  carrying  on  his  literary  work  at  the  same  time,  but 
in  that  year  he  gave  himself  up  exclusively  to  writing.  Be- 
sides plays,  he  has  written  fiction  and  criticism.  During  the 
Great  War,  he  was  attached  to  the  Intelligence  Staff  of  the 
Air  Ministry. 


MAID  OF  FRANCE 

CHARACTERS 

Jeanne  d'Arc. 

Blanche,  a  flower-girl. 

Paul,  a  French  Poilu. 

Fred,  an  English  To/nmy. 

Gerald  Soames,  an  English  lieutenant. 

The  Scene  represents  one  side  of  a  square  in  a  French  town 
on  Christmas  Eve,  igi6.  The  buildings  shown  have  suf- 
fered from  German  shells,  except  the  church  in  the  center 
which  stands  immune,  protected,  as  it  were,  by  the  statue 
of  Jeanne  d'Arc  which  stands  on  a  pedestal,  surrounded  by 
steps  in  front  of  it.  The  church  is  lighted  up  within  for 
the  midnight  mass,  but  it  is  its  side  which  presents  itself  to 
one's  view,  so  that  the  ingoing  worshipers  are  not  seen. 
The  statue  is  of  the  Maid  in  her  armor.  It  is  nearly  mid- 
night on  Christmas  Eve  and  the  lighting,  which  should  not 
be  too  realistically  obscure,  suggests  faint  moonlight. 

Paul,  a  French  private  in  war-worn  uniform,  stands  by  the 
steps,  gazing  adoringly  at  the  statue.  He  is  a  charmingly 
simple,  credulous  man,  in  peace  a  peasant.  To  him  there 
enters  from  the  right,  Blanche,  a  flower-girl,  in  a  cloak, 
with  a  basket  of  flowers.  In  face  and  figure,  Blanche 
must  resemble  the  statue.  She  is  a  pert,  impudent,  ex- 
tremely self-possessed  saleswoman,  burning,  however,  with 
the  fierce  light  of  French  patriotism  which,  almost  in  spite 
of  herself,  is  apt  to  get  the  better  of  her.  Ready  as  she 
is  to  trade  upon  Paul's  mystic  reverence  for  the  Maid, 
familiarity  ivith  the  statue  has  not  bred  contempt  in  her. 
She  stops  by  Paul,  offering  her  flowers  with  a  cajoling 
smile. 

Blanche.    Will  j^ou  buy  a  flower,  monsieur? 
Paul.     Flower,  mademoiselle?    You  can  sell  flowers  at  this 
hour  when  it  is  nearly  midnight? 

141 


142  MAID  OF  FRANCE 

Blanche.  There  is  moonlight,  and  I  have  a  smile,  monsieur. 
It  is  my  smile  which  sells  the  flowers.  Does  not  monsieur  agree 
that  it  is  irresistible? 

Paul  [uneasily].    Mademoiselle  has  charm. 

Blanche.  And  I  have  charms  for  you.  My  flowers.  Will 
you  not  buy  a  flower,  monsieur,  and  I  will  pin  it  to  your  uni- 
form where  it  will  draw  all  the  ladies'  eyes  to  you  when  you 
promenade  on  the  boulevard? 

Paul.    I  do  not  promenade.    I  stay  here. 

Blanche.  Here  in  the  Square  where  it  is  dull  and 
lonely?  But  on  the  boulevards  are  lights,  monsieur,  and 
gaiety,    and   people   promenade  because   to-night   is   Christmas 

Eve. 

Paul.     Mademoiselle,  you're  kind.     Will  you  be  kmd  to 
me  and  tell  me  something? 
Blanche.    What  can  I  tell? 

Paul.  I  am  only  a  peasant  and  I  do  not  know  many  things. 
But  you  live  in  the  town  and  you  must  know.  They  say,  made- 
moiselle, they  have  told  me,  that  there  are  miracles  on  Christ- 
mas Eve. 

Blanche.    Did  you  believe  them? 
Paul.    I  did  not  know.    I  only  hoped. 
Blanche.    What  did  you  hope? 

Paul  [very  earnestly].    I  have  been  told  that  stone  can  speak 
on  Christmas  Eve.    And  I  want,  oh,  mademoiselle,  I  want  to 
hear  the  blessed  voice  of  our  glorious  Maid. 
Blanche.    Monsieur  has  sentiment. 

Paul  [pleadingly].  You  think  that  she  will  speak  to  me? 
Blanche  [dropping  all  banter].  Monsieur,  she  speaks  in 
stone  to  all  of  us.  She  stands  erect,  serene,  like  the  uncon- 
querable spirit  of  France  and  cries  defiance  at  the  Boche.  They 
sent  their  shells  like  hail  and  ground  our  homes  to  powder  and 
made  a  desolation  of  our  streets,  but  they  could  not  touch  the 
statue  of  the  Maid  nor  the  church  she  guards. 
Paul.    And  she  speaks!    She  speaks! 

Blanche.  She  is  the  soul  of  France,  monsieur,  defying 
tyranny,  invincible  and  unafraid.  She  is  a  message  to  each  one 
of  us.  As  the  shells  fell  all  around  and  could  not  harm  her, 
so  must  we  stand  unshaken  for  the  France  we  love.  She  speaks 
of  freedom  and  deliverance. 

Paul.    And  she  will  speak  to  me? 


MAID  OF  FRANCE  143 

Blanche  \pityingly  as  she  sees  how  literally  he  has  taken 
her].     Perhaps. 

Paul.    What  must  I  do,  mademoiselle,  to  hear  her  voice? 

Blanche  [seeing  in  this  too  good  an  opportunity  for  selling 
a  flower].  Will  you  not  buy  a  flower  for  the  Maid?  They 
come  from  far  away,  from  the  South  where  there  is  alwaj'S 
sun,  and  so  they  are  not  cheap.  But,  for  a  franc,  you  may  have 
one  lily  of  Lorraine  to  put  upon  the  statue  of  the  Maid. 

Paul.     A  lily  of  Lorraine! 

Blanche  {showing  a  flower,  then  taking  it  back  tantaliz- 
ingly].  See,  monsieur!  How  could  she  refuse  to  speak  to  you 
if  you  gave  her  that? 

Paul.  It  is  the  way  to  make  her  speak!  [Puts  out  hand 
for  the  flower  and  then  draws  back.]  But  a  franc!  And  I 
have  nothing  but  one  sou. 

Blanche.  One  sou!  When  flowers  are  so  dear,  and  have 
to  come  so  far!  Mon  dieu,  monsieur,  but  you  have  had  a 
thirsty  day  if  a  sou  is  all  that  you  have  left  from  the  wine- 
shops. 

Paul.  I  did  not  spend  it  there,  mademoiselle.  I  gave  it 
to  the  church,   this  church  where  is  the  statue  of  our  Maid. 

Blanche    [only  half  scoffing].     Monsieur  is  devout. 

Paul.  Not  always,  mademoiselle.  But  I  was  born  at 
Domremy  where  she  was  born  and  I  have  always  adored  our 
sainted  Maid  who  died  for  France.  Perhaps  because  of  that, 
perhaps  without  the  flower,  Jeanne  will  speak  to  me  at  mid- 
night when  they  say  the  statues  come  to  life. 

Blanche  [touched].  Monsieur,  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps 
she  will.  But  see,  here  is  a  lily  of  Lorraine  which  I  give  you 
for  the  Maid.  Put  it  upon  her  statue  and  perhaps  it  will 
awaken  her  to  speech. 

Paul.  Mademoiselle!  [Taking  the  flower.]  How  can  I 
thank  you? 

Blanche.  I  also  am  a  maid  of  France,  monsieur.  You  are 
a  soldier  and  you  fight  for  France.  But  I  must  sell  my  flowers 
now.  Perhaps,  when  I  have  sold  them,  I  will  come  again  to 
see  if  Jeanne  has  spoken. 

Paul.     You  think  she  will? 

Blanche.  Monsieur,  have  faith.  All  things  are  possible 
on  Christmas  Eve.  [She  moves  L.  Paul  goes  to  the  statue  and 
puts  the  lily  on  its  breast.] 


144  MAID  OF  FRANCE 

Blanche.  Holy  Virgin,  the  lies  I've  told!  What  sim- 
plicity! But  Jeanne  might.  She  might.  [Exit  Blanche  L. 
Paul  stands,  watching.  An  English  lieutenant,  Gerald 
SoAMES,  enters  R.,  carrying  a  small  wreath  of  evergreens.  He 
is  awkward  and  self-conscious  and  stops  short  when  he  sees 
Paul,  annoyed  in  the  English  way  at  being  found  out  in  an 
act  of  sentiment.  By  consequence,  the  little  ceremony  he  had 
proposed  falls  short  of  the  irnpressiveness  he  designed  for  it.\ 

Gerald.  O  Lord,  there's  a  fellow  there.  Er —  [Paul 
salutes.]  Oh — er — c'est  ici  la  statue  de  Jeanne  d'Arc,  n'est-ce 
pas? 

Paul.    Mais  oui,  monsieur. 

Gerald.  And  that's  about  as  far  as  my  French  will  go.  I 
say,  you're  not  on  duty,  are  you?    Vous  n'etes  pas  de  garde? 

Paul.     Non,  monsieur. 

Gerald.  No,  of  course  you're  not.  Damned  silly  question 
to  ask.  All  the  same,  I  wish  he'd  take  a  hint.  I  say.  Lord, 
I've  forgotten  the  French  for  "  have  a  drink."  Besides,  he 
couldn't.  It's  too  late.  I'll  just  do  what  I  came  for  and  go. 
\Puts  back  into  pocket  the  coin  he  had  taken  out.\  After  all, 
the  fellow's  as  good  a  right  to  be  here  as  I  have.  I'll  have  one 
more  shot.     N'avez-vous  pas  des  affaires? 

Paul.    Mais  non,  monsieur.    Pas  ce  soir.    Je  suis  en  conge. 

Gerald.  Heaven  knows  what  that  means,  except  that  he's 
a  fixture.  Oh  well,  I  don't  care  if  he  does  see  me.  H^'ll  not 
know  what  to  make  of  it,  anyhow.  [Up  to  statue.]  Jeanne 
d'Arc,  I'm  putting  this  wreath  on  your  statue.  It's  an  English 
wreath  and  it  came  from  England.  It's  English  holly  and 
English  ivy  and  it's  supposed  to  mean  that  England's  sorry  for 
the  awful  things  she  did  to  you  and  I  hope  you've  forgiven  us 
all.  [He  has  cap  off.  Now  puts  cap  on.]  I  think  that's  all. 
[Places  wreath  at  statue's  feet.  Stands  erect,  salutes,  turns.] 
Hang  that  French  fellow.  I  suppose  he'll  think  I'm  mad. 
[Gerald  goes  doivn  steps  and  off  R.  Paul  salutes,  then  goes 
up  steps  to  look  at  the  wreath.  Fred  Colledge,  an  English 
private,  enters  L.  Without  noticing  Paul,  he  sits  on  the  steps 
and  lights  a  cigarette.  In  the  light  of  his  match  he  sees  Paul, 
gives  a  little  amused  laugh  and  lies  back  making  himself  com- 
fortable, turning  up  coat-collar,  etc.  Paul  sees  him,  and  is 
shocked.     Comes  down  steps.] 

Paul.     Monsieur! 


MAID  OF  FRANCE  145 

Fred.     Hullo,  cockey.     How  are  you  getting  on? 

Paul.  Monsieur!  This  place.  These  steps.  One  does  not 
rest  upon  these  steps. 

Fred.  Ho  yes,  one  does.  I'm  doing  it,  so  I  ought  to 
know. 

Paul.     But  here,  monsieur.    Outside  the  church. 

Fred.  That's  all  right.  The  better  the  place  the  better  the 
seat.  It  ain't  a  feather-bed  in  the  old  house  at  home,  but  I've 
sort  of  lost  the  feather-bed  'abit  lately. 

Paul.     One  should  not  sit  on  these  steps,  monsieur. 

Fred.  You  must  like  that  tune,  old  son,  the  way  you  stick 
to  it.  And,  if  you  ask  me,  one  should  not  do  a  pile  of  things 
that  one's  been  doing  over  here.  Take  me,  now.  By  rights,  I 
ought  to  be  eating  roast  beef  and  plum-pudding  to-morrow  in 
Every  Street.  Third  turn  on  the  left  below  the  Mile  End 
Pavilion,  but  I  suppose  I'm  the  same  way  as  you.  Going  back 
on  the  train  at  2  a.m.  to  eat  my  Christmas  dinner  in  the  bloom- 
ing trenches.  That's  you,  ain't  it?  And  it's  me,  too.  So  let's 
sit  down  together  and  do  an  entente  for  an  hour.  Don't  talk 
and  I'll  race  you  to  where  the  dreams  come  from.  [He  pulls 
Paul  down  genially  beside  him.] 

Paul  [sittinff].      I  ought  not  to  sit  here. 

Fred.    Ain't  these  steps  soft  enough  for  you? 

Paul.  Monsieur,  you  do  not  understand.  I  come  from 
Domremy. 

Fred.    Do  you?    I'm  Mile  End  myself.    What  about  it? 

Paul.     But  Domremy. 

Fred.    Can't  say  I'm  much  the  wiser. 

Paul.  But  here,  monsieur.  This  statue.  It  is  our  glorious 
maid.     C'est  Jeanne  d'Arc. 

Fred.  Ark,  eh?  Is  that  old  Noah?  [Gets  up  to  look  at 
statue.] 

Paul  [rising].     Jeanne  d'Arc,  monsieur.     She — 

Fred.  Oh,  it's  a  lady,  is  it?  Dressed  like  that  for  riding, 
I  reckon.  So  that's  old  Noah's  wife,  is  it?  Well,  the  old  cock 
had  a  bit  of  taste. 

Paul.  It  is  Jeanne  d'Arc.  You  call  her — what  do  you  call 
her? — Joan  of — 

Fred.  Not  guilty.  I  ain't  so  forward  with  the  ladies.  I 
don't  call  them  in  their  Christian  names  till  I've  ^een  intro- 
duced. 


146  MAID  OF  FRANCE 

Paul.  You  English  call  her  Joan  of  Arc.  The  great  Jeanne 
d'Arc.     She— 

Fred.  Wait  a  bit.  Now  don't  excite  me  for  a  moment. 
I'm  thinking.     I've  heard  that  name  before. 

Paul.     But  yes,  monsieur.     In  history. 

Fred.  That's  done  it.  I  take  you,  cockey.  I  knew  it  was 
a  way  back.  Well,  she's  nothing  in  my  life.  [Returns  to  steps 
and  sits.] 

Paul.    She  is  of  my  life.    I  come  from  Domremy. 

Fred.    So  you  said. 

Paul.     It  was  her  birthplace. 

Fred  [clapping  him  on  the  shoulder].  Cockey,  I'm  with  you 
now.  I  know  the  feeling.  Why,  we'd  a  man  born  in  our 
street  that  played  center-forward  for  the  Arsenal.  Makes  you 
proud  of  the  place  where  you  were  born.  Na  pooed  now,  poor 
devil.  Got  his  head  blown  off  last  month.  He  was  a  sergeant 
in  our  lot.     'Ave  a  woodbine? 

Paul.    Not  here,  monsieur. 

Fred.  Please  yourself.  Smoke  your  own.  Them  black 
things  are  no  use  to  me.  It's  a  rum  country  yours,  old  son. 
Light  beer  and  black  tobacco.  But  you  fight  on  it  all  right. 
Oh  yes,  you  fight  all  right.  'Ere,  'ave  a  piece  of  chocolate  to 
keep  the  cold  out.     My  missus  sent  me  that. 

Paul  [accepting],    Merci.     I  hope  madame  is  well. 

Fred.  Eh?  Who's  madame?  Oh,  you  mean  old  Sally. 
She's  all  right.  In  bed.  That's  where  she  is.  And  I'm  here. 
But  I  could  do  with  a  bit  of  a  snooze  myself.  Come  on,  let's 
do  a  doss  together. 

Paul.    A  doss? 

Fred.  Yus.  Wait  a  bit.  I  speak  French  when  I'm  'appy. 
Je  vais  dormir.     Vous  likewise  dormir. 

Paul.    I  did  not  come  to  sleep,  monsieur.    I  came  to  watch. 

Fred.  Watch  ?  What  do  you  want  to  watch  for  here  ?  No 
Germans  here. 

Paul.  C'est  la  nuit  de  Noel,  monsieur.  They  say  the  statues 
come  to  life  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  I  am  watching  here  to 
see  if  Jeanne  will  breathe  and  move  and  speak  to  a  piou-piou 
from  Domremy. 

Fred.  You  know,  old  son,  you  could  have  scared  me  once 
with  a  tale  like  that.  But  not  to-day.  I've  been  seeing  life 
lately.     If  old  Nelson  got  down  off  his  perch,  and  I  met  him 


MAID  OF  FRANCE  147 

walking  in  Trafalgar  Square,  I'd  just  salute  and  think  no  more 
about  it.    You  can't  raise  my  hair  now. 

Paul.     Then  you  believe  that  she  will  speak? 

Fred.  You  go  to  sleep,  cockey,  and  there's  no  knowing  what 
you'll  hear.  Come  on,  old  sport.  Je  dormir  and  vous  dormir, 
and  we'll  be  a  blooming  dormitory.  [Paul  hesitates,  looks  at 
statue,  then  lies  by  Fred.]  That's  right.  Lie  close.  Two  can 
keep  warmer  than  one.  Oh  well,  good-night  all.  Merry 
Christmas,  and  to  hell  with  the  Kaiser.  [They  sleep.  The 
statue  is  darkened,  and  the  lay  figure  of  the  statue  is  replaced 
by  the  living  Jeanne.  Bells  chime  midnight.  As  they  begin, 
Jeanne  awakes.  With  the  first  chime,  light  shines  dimly  on 
the  statue.  By  the  last  chime,  the  statue  is  in  brilliant  light  and 
Jeanne  stirs  on  the  pedestal  and  bends  to  the  wreath.  She 
lifts  it,  wondering.] 

Jeanne.  The  wreath  is  here.  I  did  not  dream  it,  then.  I 
saw  him  come  and  lay  the  wreath  at  my  feet.  I  saw  his  uni- 
form, and  the  uniform  was  not  of  France.  I  saw  his  face,  and 
it  was  not  a  Frenchman's  face.  I  heard  his  voice,  and  the  voice 
was  an  English  voice.  I  do  not  understand.  Why  should  the 
English  bring  a  wreath  to  me?  I  do  not  want  their  wreath. 
I  want  no  favors  from  an  Englishman.  I  am  Jeanne  d'Arc. 
I  am  your  enemy,  you  English,  whom  I  made  to  bite  the  dust 
at  Orleans  and  vanquished  at  Patay.  It  was  I  who  bore  the 
standard  into  the  cathedral  at  Rheims  when  we  crowned  my 
Dauphin  the  anointed  King  of  France,  and  English  Bedford 
trembled  at  my  name.  Burgundians  took  me  at  Compiegne. 
Your  English  money  bought  me  from  them,  and  your  English 
hatred  gave  me  up  to  mocking  priests  to  try  for  sorcery.  You 
called  me  "  Heretic,"  "  Relapsed,"  "  Apostate,"  and  "  Idolater," 
and  burnt  me  for  a  witch  in  Rouen  market-place.  And  now  do 
you  lay  a  wreath  at  Jeanne's  feet?  And  do  you  think  she 
thanks  you?  I  scorn  your  wreath.  This  wreath  an  English 
soldier  set  at  Jeanne's  feet.  I  tear  it,  and  I  trample  on  it. 
[Fred  and  Paul  have  awakened  during  this  speech.  Both  are 
bewildered  at  first,  like  men  who  dream.  But  as  Jeanne  is 
about  to  tear  the  wreath  Fred  interposes.] 

Fred.  I  dunno  if  I'm  awake  or  asleep,  but  that  there  wreath, 
lady — I  say,  don't  tear  it.  I  don't  know  nothing  about  it  bar 
what  you've  just  said,  but  if  any  of  our  blokes  put  it  there,  you 
can  take  it  from  me  it  was  kindly  meant. 


148  MAID  OF  FRANCE 

Jeanne.     You?     Who  are  you?    You're — You're  English. 

Fred  [apologetically].  Yus.  I'm  English.  I  don't  see  that 
I  can  help  it,  though.  I  just  happen  to  be  English  same  as  a 
dawg.  I'm  sorry  if  it  upsets  you,  but  I'm  English  all  right. 
And — No.  Blimey,  I  won't  apologize  for  it.  I'm  English. 
I'm  English,  and  proud  of  it.     So  there! 

Jeanne.  Why  are  the  English  here  in  France?  Why  do  I 
see  so  many  of  them? 

Paul.     Maid — Jeanne — 

Jeanne.  You!  You  are  not  English.  You  are  a  soldier 
of  France. 

Paul.    I  am  of  France. 

Jeanne.  Then  shame  to  you,  soldier  of  France!  Shame 
on  a  Frenchman  who  can  forget  his  pride  of  race  and  make  a 
comrade  of  an  Englishman! 

Paul.     Maid,  you  do  not  understand. 

Jeanne.  No.  I  do  not  understand.  I  do  not  understand 
treachery.  I  do  not  understand  baseness,  dishonor,  and  the 
perfidy  of  one  who  has  forgotten  he  is  French.  The  English 
are  the  foes  of  France,  and  you  consort  with  them.    You — 

Fred.  'Ere,  'ere,  'alf  a  mo'.  Steady  on,  lady.  You've  got 
to  learn  something.  All  that  stuff  you've  just  been  talking 
about  the  Battle  of  Waterloo.  It's  a  wash-out  now.  We've 
cut  it  out.  This  'ere  bloke  you're  grousing  at  'e's  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  I'll  pipe  up  for  a  friend  when  'e's  being  reprimanded 
undeserving. 

Jeanne.  It  is  for  that  I  blame  a  son  of  France,  that  he 
makes  friends  with  you. 

Fred.  Well,  it's  your  mistake.  That's  the  worst  of  coming 
out  of  history.  You're  out  of  date.  If  I  took  my  great- 
grandmother  on  a  motor-bus  to  a  picture-show,  she'd  have  the 
same  sort  of  fit  that  you've  got,  only  it's  worse  with  you. 
You're  further  back.  And  I'll  tell  you  something.  That  old 
French  froggy  business  is  dead  and  gorn.  We've  given  it  up. 
Time's  passed  when  an  Englishman  thought  he  could  lick  two 
Frenchmen  with  one  hand  tied  behind  his  back.  It's  a  back 
number,  lady.  Carpentier  put  the  lid  on  that.  You  ask  Billy 
Wells.  Us  blokes  and  the  French,  we're  feeding  out  of  one 
another's  hands  to-day. 

Jeanne.  I  have  seen  the  English  and  the  French  together 
in  the  streets.    They  do  not  fight. 


MAID  OF  FRANCE  149 

Fred.  Lord  bless  you,  no.  Provost-marshal  wouldn't  let 
'em,  if  they  wanted  a  friendly  scrap. 

Jeanne.  They  fraternize.  I  have  seen  them  walking  arm- 
in-arm. 

Fred.    That's  natural  enough. 

Jeanne.     Natural,  for  French  and  English! 

Fred.  Yes,  lady,  natural.  If  you'd  seen  the  Frenchies  fight- 
ing, same  as  I  have,  you'd  want  to  walk  arm-in-arm  with  them 
yourself,  and  be  proud  to  do  it,  too. 

Paul.    The  English  are  our  brothers.  Maid. 

Fred.  Gorlummy,  we're  more  than  that.  I've  known 
brothers  do  the  dirty  on  each  other.  Us  and  the  French,  we're 
— why,  we're  pals.  So  that's  all  right,  lady.  Just  let  me  put 
that  wreath  back  where  you  got  it  from.  I'm  sure  you'll  'urt 
someone's  feelings  if  you  trample  on  it.  [He  tries  to  take 
wreath,  she  prevents  him.] 

Jeanne.  When  you  have  shown  me  why  I  should  accept 
an  English  wreath,  perhaps  I  will.  So  far  I've  yet  to 
learn  why  a  soldier  of  France  is  friendly  with  an  English- 
man. 

Fred.  I  can't  show  you  more  than  this,  can  I  ?  [Links  arms 
with  Paul.] 

Jeanne.    That  is  not  reason. 

Paul  [unlinking  his  arm].  Perhaps  I  can  show  you  reason. 
I  who  was  born  at  Domremy. 

Jeanne.    You  come  from  there!     My  home? 

Paul.    Yes. 

Jeanne.  You  know  St.  Remy's  church  and  the  Meuse  and 
the  beech-tree  where  they  said  the  fairies  used  to  dance.  The 
tree.    Is  it  still  there  ? 

Paul.    I  do  not  know. 

Jeanne.  And  the  fields!  The  fields  where  I  kept  my 
father's  sheep,  and  the  wolves  would  not  come  near  when  I 
had  charge  of  them,  and  the  birds  came  to  me  and  ate  bread 
from  my  lap.     You  know  those  fields  of  Domremy? 

Paul.     I  knew  them  once. 

Jeanne.    You  knew  my  church.    It  still  is  there? 

Paul.    Who  can  say? 

Jeanne.    Cannot  you,  who  were  baptized  in  it? 

Paul.  Jeanne,  the  Germans  came  to  Domremy.  I  do  not 
know  if  anything  is  left. 


150  MAID  OF  FRANCE 

Jeanne.  The  Germans?  But  the  Germans  did  not  count 
when  I  lived  there. 

Fred.     No,  and  they'll  count  a  sight  less  before  so  long. 

Paul.  They  came  like  a  thunderstorm,  Jeanne.  They 
swept  our  men  away.  They  tore  up  treaties,  and  they  came 
through  Belgium  and  ravished  it,  and  took  us  unawares.  They 
blotted  out  our  frontiers  and  came  on  like  the  tide  till  even 
Paris  heard  the  sound  of  German  guns.  And  then  the  English 
came,  slowly  at  first,  and  just  a  little  late,  but  not  too  late, 
then  more  and  more  and  all  the  time  more  English  came.  They 
swept  the  Germans  from  the  seas  and  drove  their  ships  to  hide. 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  they  have  fought  for  France.  They  hurled 
the  Germans  back  from  Paris,  and  when  their  soldiers  fell  more 
came  and  more.  Their  plowmen  and  their  clerks,  their  great 
lords  and  their  scullions,  all  came  to  France  to  fight  with  us 
for  la  patrie.     Their  women  make  munitions  and — 

Fred.  Yus.  I  daresay.  Very  fine.  Only  that'll  do.  We 
ain't  done  nothing  to  make  a  song  about. 

Paul.  Our  children  and  our  children's  children  will  make 
songs  of  what  the  English  did. 

Fred.  You  let  'em.  Leave  it  to  'em.  Way  I  look  at  it  is 
this,  lady.  There's  a  big  swelled-headed  bully,  and  he  gets  a 
little  fellow  down  and  starts  kicking  'im.  Well,  it  ain't  man- 
ners, and  we  blokes  comes  along  to  teach  'im  wot's  wot.  That's 
all  there  is  to  it. 

Paul.  There's  more  than  I  could  tell  in  a  hundred  years, 
Jeanne. 

Fred.    Then  what's  the  good  of  trj'ing? 

Jeanne.  He  tried  because  he  had  to  make  me  understand 
your  friendship  and  all  the  noble  thought  and  noble  deed  that 
lie  behind  this  little  wreath.     [She  raises  the  wreath.] 

Fred  [interposing].  Oh,  I  say  now,  lady,  go  easy  with  that 
wreath,  won't  you?  I — I  wouldn't  trample  it  if  I  were  3^ou. 
Battle  of  Waterloo's  a  long  time  ago. 

Jeanne.    Don't  be  afraid. 

Fred.    Gave  me  a  turn  to  see  you  pick  it  up  like  that. 

Jeanne  [putting  it  on  her  head].  The  English  wreath  is 
in  its  right  place  now.  Here,  on  the  head  of  Jeanne  d'Arc. 
I'll  wear  that  wreath  forever.  Give  me  your  hand,  you  Eng- 
lish soldier. 

Fred.    I've  not  washed  since  morning,  lady. 


MAID  OF  FRANCE  151 

Jeanne.  Your  hand,  that  fights  for  France.  [She  takes  it.] 
And  yours,  soldier  of  France. 

Paul.    Jeanne!    But  you —     [Holding  back  timidly.] 

Jeanne.  I  am  where  I  would  always  be — [she  has  a  hand 
of  both] — amongst  my  fighting  men.  They  have  set  me  on  a 
pedestal  and  made  a  saint  of  me,  but  I  am  better  here,  between 
you  two,  both  soldiers  of  France.  They  will  not  let  me  fight 
for  France  to-day.  Save  for  this  mystic  hour  on  Christmas  Eve 
I  am  a  thing  of  stone.  But  Jeanne  lives  on.  Her  spirit  fights 
for  France  to-day  as  Jeanne  fought  five  hundred  years  ago.  And, 
in  this  hour  when  I  am  granted  speech,  I  say,  "  Fight  on,  fight 
on  for  France  till  France  and  Belgium  are  free  and  the  invader 
pays  the  price  of  treachery.  And  you,  you  English  who  have 
come  to  France,  and  you  in  England  who  are  making  arms  for 
France,  I,  who  have  hated  you,  I,  whom  you  burnt,  I,  Jeanne 
d'Arc  of  Rheims  and  Orleans,  I  give  you  thanks.  My  people 
are  your  people,  and  my  cause  your  cause.  Vivent!  Vivent 
les  Anglais!  "  [During  this  speech  she  drops  the  soldiers' 
hands.  They  resume  gradually  their  sleeping  attitudes.  Jeanne 
TJiounts  her  pedestal,  and  gives  the  last  -words  from  it,  then 
becomes  stone  again.  The  light  fades  to  darkness,  then  be- 
comes the  moonlight  of  the  opening.  Blanche  enters  L.  She 
goes  to  the  steps,  looks  at  the  sleeping  soldiers,  and  stands  above 
them.    Her  basket  is  empty  but  for  one  flower. 

Paul   [stirring  and  seeing  her].     Jeanne! 

Blanche.     My  name  is  Blanche,  monsieur. 

Paul.  But  I — you — [he  rises].  Mademoiselle,  you  are 
very  like — 

Blanche.  I  am  the  flower-girl  whom  you  saw  before  you 
went  to  sleep,  and  I  am  very  like  myself,  monsieur. 

Paul.  Was  I  asleep?  [Looks  at  statue.]  Yes.  There  is 
Jeanne. 

Blanche.  Where  else  should  Jeanne  be  but  on  her 
pedestal  ? 

Fred  [stirring].  Revelley  again  before  you've  hardly  closed 
your  blooming  eyes.  [Sits  up  sharply  on  seeing  Blanche.] 
Hullo!  You're — you're —  [Turns  to  Paul.]  Why,  cockey, 
it  wasn't  a  yarn.  The  statues  do  walk  about  in  France. 
There's  one  of  them  doing  it. 

Paul.     You  saw  her  too? 

Fred.    Saw  her?    Of  course  I  seen  her.    She's  there.    Ain't 


152  MAID  OF  FRANCE 

you  and  me  been  talking  familiar  with  her  for  the  last  ten 
minutes? 

Paul.    Yes,  with  Jeanne. 

Fred.     Took  my  'and  she  did,  and  chanced  the  dirt. 

Blanche.  You  have  been  dreaming,  monsieur.  C'etait  une 
reverie. 

Fred.  Who's  raving?  Well,  it  may  be  raving,  but  we  all 
raved  together.  You  and  me  and  'im,  and  Fll  eat  my  bayonet 
raw  if  you  didn't  stand  there  and  take  us  by  the  hands  and 
tell  us  you  were  that  there  Joan  of  Arc  what  used  to  tell  old 
Bonaparte  what  to  do  when  he  was  in  an  'ole. 

Blanche.  It  was  not  I.  There  is  the  statue,  monsieur. 
[Points  to  it.] 

Fred.  Where?  [Looks.]  Well,  that's  queer.  You're  the 
dead  spit  and  image  of  'er,  too.  And  'ere,  'ere,  cockey!  [Takes 
Paul's  arm  excitedly.] 

Paul.     Monsieur? 

Fred.  Look  at  the  statue.  Look  at  its  head.  Who  put  that 
wreath  on  it?    Did  you  climb  up  there? 

Paul.    No. 

Fred.  No.  You  know  you  didn't.  We  saw  her  put  it  on 
herself. 

Paul.  But,  monsieur,  then  you  have  dreamed  the  same 
dream  as  I. 

Fred.    I  saw  you  all  right,  and  you  saw  me? 

Paul.    I  saw  you. 

Fred.  And  we  both  saw  'er.  It's  a  rum  go,  cockey,  but  I 
told  you  I'd  given  up  being  surprised.  Our  lot  and  yours  we're 
going  whacks  in  licking  the  Germans,  ain't  we  ?  Yus,  and  now 
we're  going  whacks  in  the  same  dream,  so  that's  that  and  chance 
it.  Ententing  again,  only  extra  cordial.  [Scratches  head.]  1 
don't  quite  see  where  she  comes  in,  though,  if  she  ain't  the  statue. 

Blanche.    I  am  a  flower-girl,  monsieur. 

Fred.     Not  so  many  flowers  about  you,  then. 

Blanche.  I  have  sold  out,  all  but  one  flower,  monsieur, 
and  I  came  back  to  see  if  you   [to  Paul]  had  got  your  wish. 

Paul.  Yes,  mademoiselle,  I  had  my  wish.  The  saints  sent 
Jeanne  to  me  in  a  dream. 

Blanche.    You  happy  man,  to  get  your  wish! 

Paul.  I  am  happy,  mademoiselle.  I  have  spoken  with 
Jeanne  d'Arc. 


MAID  OF  FRANCE  153 

Fred.  And  you  and  me  will  be  speaking  with  our  sergeants 
if  we  don't  buck  up  and  catch  that  blinking  train.  Come  on, 
old  son,  back  to  the  Big  Stink  for  us. 

Blanche.     Messieurs  return  to  fight? 

Fred.  Lord  love  you,  no.  It's  only  a  rumor  about  the  war. 
We're  a  Cook's  excursion  on  a  joy-ride  seeing  the  sights  of 
France.     [Fred  and  Paul  move  R.  together.] 

Blanche.     Monsieur! 

Fred  [stoppinff].    Well? 

Blanche.  I  kept  one  flower  back.  It  is  for  you — for  the 
brave  English  soldier  who  goes  out  to  fight  for  France. 

Fred.  Don't  make  me  homesick.  Reminds  me  of  the  flower- 
pots on  my  kitchen  window-sill.  [Takes  flower  and  produces 
chocolate.]  'Ere,  miss,  'ave  a  bit  of  chocolate.  Made  in  Eng- 
land, that  was. 

Blanche.    Monsieur  will  need  it  for  himself, 

Fred.  Go  on.  Take  it.  I'm  all  right.  It's  Christmas  Day 
and  extra  rations.      [Kisses  her.] 

Blanche.  Merci,  monsieur.  Et  bonne  chance,  mes  braves, 
bonne  chance. 

Fred.  Oh,  we'll  chance  it  all  right.  Merry  Christmas,  old 
dear.  [Fred  and  Paul  go  off  together  R.  Blanche  watches 
the?n  go.  Lights  in  the  church  go  out.  Girls  enter  L.  as  if 
coming  from  Mass,  singing  a  carol. 

Girls 

Noel !  Noel !  thy  babe  that  lies 
Within  the  manger,  Mother-Maid, 
Is  King  of  earth  and  Paradise, 
O  guard  him  well,  Noel,  Noel 
Ye  shepherds  sing,  be  not  afraid. 

O  little  hills  of  France,  awake. 
For  angel  hosts  are  chanting  high, 
His  heart  is  pierced  for  our  sake, 
Noel,  Noel,  we  guard  him  well. 
He  liveth  though  all  else  shall  die. 

[Blanche  joins  them,  singing  as  they  cross.] 
[the  curtain.] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  * 

By 
AUGUSTA  GREGORY 


*  Copyright,  in  United  States,  1909,  by  Augusta  Gregory.  Re- 
printed by  permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  New  York  and  London. 

This  play  has  been  copyrighted  and  published  simultaneously  in  the 
United  States  and  Great  Britain. 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  lan- 
guages. 

All  acting  rights,  both  professional  and  amateur,  are  reserved  in 
the  United  States,  Great  Britain,  and  all  countries  of  the  Copyright 
Union,  by  the  author.  Performances  forbidden  and  right  of  presenta- 
tion reserved. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  this  play  or  reading  it  in 
public  should  be  made  to  Samuel  French,  28  West  38  St.,  New  York 
City. 


Isabella  Augusta  Persse,  later  Lady  Gregory,  was  born  at 
Roxborough,  County  Galway,  Ireland,  in  1859.  C)^*^  who  saw 
her  in  the  early  years  of  her  married  life  describes  her  thus: 
"  She  was  then  a  young  woman,  very  earnest,  who  divided  her 
hair  in  the  middle  and  wore  it  smooth  on  either  side  of  a  broad 
and  handsome  brow.  Her  eyes  were  always  full  of  questions. 
I.  .  .  In  her  drawing-room  were  to  be  met  men  of  assured 
reputation  in  literature  and  politics  and  there  was  always  the 
best  reading  of  the  times  upon  her  tables." 

Two  closely  related  interests  have  always  divided  Lady 
Gregory's  attention.  Her  occupation  with  the  Irish  Players  has 
been  constant,  and  she  has  from  the  beginning  been  a  director 
of  the  Abbey  Theatre,  where  Spreading  the  News  was  first 
performed  on  December  27,  1904.  This  play  was  also  included 
in  the  American  repertory  of  the  Players,  whom  Lady  Gregory 
accompanied  on  their  visit  to  the  United  States  in  191 1.  The 
spirit  that  she  puts  into  her  work  with  them  is  well  illustrated 
by  those  lines  of  Blake  which  she  quoted  in  a  speech  made 
at  a  dinner  given  her  by  The  Outlook  when  she  was  in 
New  York.  Her  hard  work  having  been  commented  on,  she 
replied : 

"  I  will  not  cease  from  mental   strife 
Or  let  the  sword  fall  from  my  hand 
Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 
In — Ireland's — fair   and   lovely   land." 

In  her  book  on  Our  Irish  Theatre,  A  Chapter  of  Autobiogra- 
phy, she  relates  the  story  of  how  one  day  when  she  assembled 
the  company  for  rehearsal  in  Washington,  D.  C,  she  invited 
them  to  leave  their  work  and  come  with  her  to  Mount  Vernon 
for  a  holiday  and  picnic.  "  I  told  them,"  she  writes,  "  the 
holiday  was  not  a  precedent,  for  we  might  go  to  a  great  many 
countries  before  finding  so  great  a  man  to  honor."  Washing- 
ton, it  seems,  had  been  a  friend  of  her  grandfather's  who  had 
been  in  America  with  his  regiment. 

Her  other  great  interest  has  been  the  folklore  of  Ireland. 

157 


158  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

She  has  been  called  the  Irish  Malory,  because  through  her  re- 
telling of  the  Irish  sagas,  she  has  popularized  and  made  acces- 
sible the  great  cycles  of  heroic  legends.  She  has  employed  for 
the  vernacular  of  these  romances  and  folk  tales  what  she  calls 
Kiltartan  English,  Kiltartan  being  the  village  near  her  home, 
the  dialect  of  which  she  has  assimilated  and  utilized.  Lady 
Gregory  has  also  used  her  historical  and  legendary  knowledge 
for  the  background  of  some  of  her  plays. 

It  is  said  that  the  original  impulse  that  influenced  Lady 
Gregory  to  interest  herself  in  these  old  Irish  stories  came  from 
Yeats,  her  friend  and  associate  in  the  project  of  the  Irish  Na- 
tional Theatre.  It  was  his  suggestion  in  the  first  place  that 
led  to  her  writing  Cuchulain  of  Muirthemne.  "  He  could  not 
have  been  long  at  Coole,"  writes  George  Moore  of  Yeats, 
"  before  he  began  to  draw  her  attention  to  the  beauty  of  the 
literature  that  rises  among  the  hills  and  bubbles  irresponsibly, 
and  set  her  going  from  cabin  to  cabin  taking  down  stories,  and 
encouraging  her  to  learn  the  original  language  of  the  country, 
so  that  they  might  add  to  the  Irish  idiom  which  the  peasant 
had  already  translated  into  English,  making  in  this  way  a  lan- 
guage for  themselves."  The  influence  continues,  for  her  latest 
book,  Visions  and  Beliefs  in  the  West  of  Ireland,  contains  two 
essays  and  notes  from  the  pen  of  Yeats. 

The  literary  association  of  Yeats  and  Lady  Gregory  has  been 
a  fruitful  one  for  Ireland.  Not  only  has  Yeats  encouraged 
Lady  Gregory's  researches  into  the  past,  but  she  has  been  of 
the  greatest  assistance  to  him  in  his  work.  When  he  is  at 
Coole,  she  writes  from  his  dictation,  arranges  his  manuscript, 
reads  to  him  and  serves  him  as  literary  counselor. 

Lady  Gregory's  life  touches  the  life  of  Ireland  at  many 
points.  In  addition  to  her  literary  occupations,  she  lectures  and 
co-operates  actively  with  a  number  of  societies  that  have  as 
their  aim  social  or  political  betterment. 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

CHARACTERS 

Bartley  Fallon. 

Mrs.  Fallon. 

Jack  Smith. 

Shawn  Early. 

Tim  Casey. 

James  Ryan. 

Mrs.  Tarpey. 

Mrs.  Tully. 

Jo  MuLDOON,  a  policeman. 

A  Removable  Magistrate. 

SCENE.— The  outskirts  of  a  Fair.     An  Apple  Stall.     Mrs. 
Tarpey  sitting  at  it.    Magistrate  and  Policeman  enter. 

Magistrate.  So  that  is  the  Fair  Green.  Cattle  and  sheep 
and  mud.     No  system.     What  a  repulsive  sight! 

Policeman.    That  is  so,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  I  suppose  there  is  a  good  deal  of  disorder  in 
this  place? 

Policeman.    There  is. 

Magistrate.     Common  assault? 

Policeman.     It's  common  enough. 

Magistrate.    Agrarian  crime,  no  doubt? 

Policeman.    That  is  so. 

Magistrate.  Boycotting?  Maiming  of  cattle?  Firing 
into  houses? 

Policeman.    There  was  one  time,  and  there  might  be  again. 

Magistrate.  That  is  bad.  Does  it  go  any  farther  than 
that? 

Policeman.    Far  enough,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  Homicide,  then!  This  district  has  been 
shamefully  neglected!     I  will  change  all  that.     When  I  was 

159 


i6o  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

in  the  Andaman  Islands,  my  system  never  failed.     Yes,  yes,  I 
will  change  all  that.     What  has  that  woman  on  her  stall? 
Policeman.    Apples  mostly — and  sweets. 
Magistrate.     Just  see  if  there  are  any  unlicensed  goods 
underneath — spirits  or  the  like.     We  had  evasions  of  the  salt 
tax  in  the  Andaman  Islands. 

Policeman  [sniffinff  cautiously  and  upsetting  a  heap  of 
apples^.     I  see  no  spirits  here — or  salt. 

Magistrate  {to  Mrs.  Tarpey].  Do  you  know  this  town 
well,  my  good  woman? 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [holding  out  some  apples].  A  penny  the  half- 
dozen,  your  honor. 

Policeman  [shouting].  The  gentleman  is  asking  do  you 
know  the  town!     He's  the  new  magistrate! 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [rising  and  ducking].  Do  I  know  the  town? 
I  do,  to  be  sure. 

Magistrate  [shouting].    What  is  its  chief  business? 
Mrs.  Tarpey.     Business,  is  it?     What  business  would  the 
people  here  have  but  to  be  minding  one  another's  business? 
Magistrate.     I  mean  what  trade  have  they? 
Mrs.  Tarpey.     Not  a  trade.     No  trade  at  all  but  to  be 
talking. 

Magistrate.  I  shall  learn  nothing  here.  [James  Ryan 
comes  in,  pipe  in  mouth.  Seeing  Magistrate  he  retreats 
quickly,  taking  pipe  from  mouth.] 

Magistrate.  The  smoke  from  that  man's  pipe  had  a 
greenish  look;  he  may  be  growing  unlicensed  tobacco  at  home. 
I  wish  I  had  brought  my  telescope  to  this  district.  Come  to 
the  post-office,  I  will  telegraph  for  it.  I  found  it  very  useful 
in  the  Andaman  Islands.  [Magistrate  and  Policeman  go 
out  left.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Bad  luck  to  Jo  Muldoon,  knocking  my 
apples  this  way  and  that  way.  [Begins  arranging  them.] 
Showing  off  he  was  to  the  new  magistrate.  [Enter  Bartley 
Fallon  and  Mrs.   Fallon.] 

Bartley.  Indeed  it's  a  poor  country  and  a  scarce  country 
to  be  living  in.  But  I'm  thinking  if  I  went  to  America  it's 
long  ago  the  day  I'd  be  dead! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  So  you  might,  indeed.  [She  puts  her 
basket  on  a  barrel  and  begins  putting  parcels  in  it,  taking 
them  from  under  her  cloak.] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  i6i 

Bartley.  And  it's  a  great  expense  for  a  poor  man  to  be 
buried  in  America. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Never  fear,  Bartley  Fallon,  but  I'll  give 
you  a  good  burying  the  day  you'll  die. 

Bartley.  Maybe  it's  yourself  will  be  buried  in  the  grave- 
yard of  Cloonmara  before  me,  Mary  Fallon,  and  I  myself  that 
will  be  dying  unbeknownst  some  night,  and  no  one  a-near  me. 
And  the  cat  itself  may  be  gone  straying  through  the  country, 
and  the  mice  squealing  over  the  quilt. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Leave  off  talking  of  dying.  It  might  be 
twenty  years  you'll  be  living  yet. 

Bartley  [with  a  deep  sigh].  I'm  thinking  if  I'll  be  living 
at  the  end  of  twenty  years,  it's  a  very  old  man  I'll  be  then! 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [turns  and  sees  them].  Good  morrow, 
Bartley  Fallon;  good  morrow,  Mrs.  Fallon.  Well,  Bartley, 
you'll  find  no  cause  for  complaining  to-day;  they  are  all  saying 
it  was  a  good  fair. 

Bartley  [raising  his  voice].  It  was  not  a  good  fair,  Mrs. 
Tarpey.  It  was  a  scattered  sort  of  a  fair.  If  we  didn't  expect 
more,  we  got  less.  That's  the  way  with  me  always;  whatever 
I  have  to  sell  goes  down  and  whatever  I  have  to  buy  goes  up. 
If  there's  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to  this  world,  it's  on 
myself  it  pitches,  like  a  flock  of  crows  on  seed  potatoes. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Leave  off  talking  of  misfortunes,  and  listen 
to  Jack  Smith  that  is  coming  the  way,  and  he  singing.  [Voice 
of  Jack  Smith  heard  singing:] 

I  thought,  my  first  love, 

There'd  be  but  one  house  between  you  and  me, 
And  I  thought  I  would  find 

Yourself  coaxing  my  child  on  your  knee. 
Over  the  tide 

I  would  leap  with  the  leap  of  a  swan, 
Till  I  came  to  the  side 

Of  the  wife  of  the  red-haired  man! 

[Jack  Smith  comes  in;  he  is  a  red-haired  man,  and  is  carry- 
ing a  hayfork.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  That  should  be  a  good  song  if  I  had  my 
hearing. 

Mrs.  Fallon  [shouting].  It's  "The  Red-haired  Man's 
Wife." 


i62  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  I  know  it  well.  That's  the  song  that  has 
a  skin  on  it!  [She  turns  her  back  to  them  and  goes  on  arrang- 
ing her  apples.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.    Where's  herself,  Jack  Smith? 

Jack  Smith.  She  was  delayed  with  her  washing;  bleaching 
the  clothes  on  the  hedge  she  is,  and  she  daren't  leave  them,  with 
all  the  tinkers  that  do  be  passing  to  the  fair.  It  isn't  to  the 
fair  I  came  myself,  but  up  to  the  Five  Acre  Meadow  I'm  going, 
where  I  have  a  contract  for  the  hay.  We'll  get  a  share  of  it 
into  tramps  to-day.  [He  lays  down  hayfork  and  lights  his 
pipe.] 

Bartley.  You  will  not  get  it  into  tramps  to-day.  The  rain 
will  be  down  on  it  by  evening,  and  on  myself  too.  It's  seldom 
I  ever  started  on  a  journey  but  the  rain  would  come  down  on 
me  before  I'd  find  any  place  of  shelter. 

Jack  Smith.  If  it  didn't  itself,  Bartley,  it  is  my  belief  you 
would  carry  a  leaky  pail  on  your  head  in  place  of  a  hat,  the 
way  you'd  not  be  without  some  cause  of  complaining.  [A  voice 
heard,  "  Go  on,  now,  go  on  out  o'  that.     Go  on  I  say."] 

Jack  Smith.  Look  at  that  young  mare  of  Pat  Ryan's  that 
is  backing  into  Shaughnessy's  bullocks  with  the  dint  of  the 
crowd!  Don't  be  daunted,  Pat,  I'll  give  you  a  hand  with  her. 
[He  goes  out,  leaving  his  hayfork.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  It's  time  for  ourselves  to  be  going  home.  I 
have  all  I  bought  put  in  the  basket.  Look  at  there,  Jack  Smith's 
hayfork  he  left  after  him!  He'll  be  wanting  it.  [Calls.]  Jack 
Smith!  Jack  Smith! —  He's  gone  through  the  crowd — hurry 
after  him,  Bartley,  he'll  be  wanting  it. 

Bartley.  I'll  do  that.  This  is  no  safe  place  to  be  leaving 
it.  [He  takes  up  fork  awkwardly  and  upsets  the  basket.] 
Look  at  that  now!  If  there  is  any  basket  in  the  fair  upset,  it 
must  be  our  own  basket!     [He  goes  out  to  right.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Get  out  of  that!  It  is  your  own  fault,  ft 
is.  Talk  of  misfortunes  and  misfortunes  will  come.  Glory 
be!  Look  at  my  new  egg-cups  rolling  in  every  part — and  my 
two  pound  of  sugar  with  the  paper  broke — 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [turning  from  stall].  God  help  us,  Mrs. 
Fallon,  what  happened  your  basket? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  It's  himself  that  knocked  it  down,  bad  man- 
ners to  him.  [Putting  things  up.]  My  grand  sugar  that's 
destroyed,  and  he'll  not  drink  his  tea  without  it.     I  had  best 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  163 

go  back  to  the  shop  for  more,  much  good  may  it  do  him! 
[Enter  TiM  Casey.] 

Tim  Casey.  Where  is  Bartley  Fallon,  Mrs.  Fallon?  I 
want  a  word  with  him  before  he'll  leave  the  fair.  I  was 
afraid  he  might  have  gone  home  by  this,  for  he's  a  temperate 
man. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  I  wish  he  did  go  home!  It'd  be  best  for 
me  if  he  went  home  straight  from  the  fair  green,  or  if  he 
never  came  with  me  at  all!  Where  is  he,  is  it?  He's  gone  up 
the  road  [jerks  elbow]  following  Jack  Smith  with  a  hayfork. 
[She  goes  out  to  left.] 

Tim  Casey.  Following  Jack  Smith  with  a  hayfork!  Did 
ever  anyone  hear  the  like  of  that.  [Shouts.]  Did  you  hear 
that  news,  Mrs.  Tarpey? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.     I  heard  no  news  at  all. 

Tim  Casey.  Some  dispute  I  suppose  it  was  that  rose  be- 
tween Jack  Smith  and  Bartley  Fallon,  and  it  seems  Jack  made 
off,  and  Bartley  is  following  him  with  a  hayfork! 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Is  he  now?  Well,  that  was  quick  work! 
It's  not  ten  minutes  since  the  two  of  them  were  here,  Bartley 
going  home  and  Jack  going  to  the  Five  Acre  Meadow;  and  I 
had  my  apples  to  settle  up,  that  Jo  Muldoon  of  the  police  had 
scattered,  and  when  I  looked  round  again  Jack  Smith  was  gone, 
and  Bartley  Fallon  was  gone,  and  Mrs.  Fallon's  basket  upset, 
and  all  in  it  strewed  upon  the  ground — the  tea  here — the  two 
pound  of  sugar  there — the  egg-cups  there —  Look,  now,  what 
a  great  hardship  the  deafness  puts  upon  me,  that  I  didn't  hear 
the  commincement  of  the  fight!  Wait  till  I  tell  James  Ryan 
that  I  see  below;  he  is  a  neighbor  of  Bartley's,  it  would  be  a 
pity  if  he  wouldn't  hear  the  news!  [She  goes  out.  Enter 
Shawn  Early  and  Mrs.  Tully.] 

Tim  Casey.  Listen,  Shawn  Early!  Listen,  Mrs.  Tully,  to 
the  news!  Jack  Smith  and  Bartley  Fallon  had  a  falling  out, 
and  Jack  knocked  Mrs.  Fallon's  basket  into  the  road,  and 
Bartley  made  an  attack  on  him  with  a  hayfork,  and  away  with 
Jack,  and  Bartley  after  him.  Look  at  the  sugar  here  yet  on 
the  road! 

Shawn  Early.  Do  you  tell  me  so?  Well,  that's  a  queer 
thing,  and  Bartley  Fallon  so  quiet  a  man ! 

Mrs.  Tully.  I  wouldn't  wonder  at  all.  I  would  never 
think  well  of  a  man  that  would  have  that  sort  of  a  moldering 


i64  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

look.  It's  likely  he  has  overtaken  Jack  by  this.  YEnter  James 
Ryan  and  Mrs.  Tarpey.] 

James  Ryan.  That  is  great  news  Mrs.  Tarpey  was  telling 
me!  I  suppose  that's  what  brought  the  police  and  the  magis- 
trate up  this  way.  I  was  wondering  to  see  them  in  it  a  while 
ago. 

Shawn  Early.  The  police  after  them?  Bartley  Fallon 
must  have  injured  Jack  so.  They  wouldn't  meddle  in  a  fight 
that  was  only  for  show! 

Mrs.  Tully.  Why  wouldn't  he  injure  him?  There  was 
many  a  man  killed  with  no  more  of  a  weapon  than  a  hayfork. 

James  Ryan.  Wait  till  I  run  north  as  far  as  Kelly's  bar 
to  spread  the  news!      [He  goes  om/.] 

Tim  Casey.  I'll  go  tell  Jack  Smith's  first  cousin  that  is 
standing  there  south  of  the  church  after  selling  his  lambs. 
[Goes  out.\ 

Mrs.  Tully.  I'll  go  telling  a  few  of  the  neighbors  I  see 
beyond  to  the  west.     {Goes  ow/.] 

Shawn  Early.  I'll  give  word  of  it  beyond  at  the  east  of 
the  green.  [Is  going  out  when  Mrs.  Tarpey  seizes  hold  of 
him.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Stop  a  minute,  Shawn  Early,  and  tell  me 
did  you  see  red  Jack  Smith's  wife,  Kitty  Keary,  in  any  place? 

Shawn  Early.  I  did.  At  her  own  house  she  was,  drying 
clothes  on  the  hedge  as  I  passed. 

Mrs.  Tarpey.    What  did  you  say  she  was  doing? 

Shawn  Early  [breaking  away.]  Laying  out  a  sheet  on 
the  hedge.     [He  goes.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Laying  out  a  sheet  for  the  dead !  The  Lord 
have  mercy  on  us!  Jack  Smith  dead,  and  his  wife  laying  out 
a  sheet  for  his  burying!  [Calls  out.]  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
that  before,  Shawn  Early?  Isn't  the  deafness  the  great  hard- 
ship? Half  the  world  might  be  dead  without  me  knowing  of 
it  or  getting  word  of  it  at  all !  [She  sits  down  and  rocks  her- 
self.] Oh,  my  poor  Jack  Smith!  To  be  going  to  his  work  so 
nice  and  so  hearty,  and  to  be  left  stretched  on  the  ground  in 
the  full  light  of  the  day!     [Enter  Tim  Casey.] 

Tim  Casey.  What  is  it,  Mrs^  Tarpey?  What  happened 
since  ? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.    Oh,  my  poor  Jack  Smith! 

Tim  Casey.    Did  Bartley  overtake  him? 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  165 

Mrs.  Tarpey.    Oh,  the  poor  man! 

Tim  Casey.     Is  it  killed  he  is? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.    Stretched  in  the  Five  Acre  Meadow! 

Tim  Casey.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us!  Is  that  a 
fact? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Without  the  rites  of  the  Church  or  a 
ha'porth ! 

Tim  Casey.    Who  was  telling  you? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  And  the  wife  laying  out  a  sheet  for  his 
corpse.  [Sits  up  and  ivipes  her  eyes.]  I  suppose  they'll  wake 
him  the  same  as  another?  [Enter  Mrs.  Tully,  Shawn 
Early,  and  James  Ryan.] 

Mrs.  Tully.  There  is  great  talk  about  this  work  in  every 
quarter  of  the  fair. 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Ochone!  cold  and  dead.  And  myself  maybe 
the  last  he  was  speaking  to! 

James  Ryan.    The  Lord  save  us!    Is  it  dead  he  is? 

Tim  Casey.  Dead  surely,  and  the  wife  getting  provision 
for  the  wake. 

Shawn  Early.  Well,  now,  hadn't  Bartley  Fallon  great 
venom  in  him? 

Mrs.  Tully.  You  may  be  sure  he  had  some  cause.  Why 
would  he  have  made  an  end  of  him  if  he  had  not?  [To  Mrs. 
Tarpey,  raising  her  voice.]  What  was  it  rose  the  dispute  at 
all,  Mrs.  Tarpey? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Not  a  one  of  me  knows.  The  last  I  saw 
of  them.  Jack  Smith  was  standing  there,  and  Bartley  Fallon 
was  standing  there,  quiet  and  easy,  and  he  listening  to  "  The 
Red-haired  Man's  Wife." 

Mrs.  Tully.  Do  you  hear  that,  Tim  Casey  ?  Do  you  hear 
that,  Shawn  Early  and  James  Ryan?  Bartley  Fallon  was  here 
this  morning  listening  to  red  Jack  Smith's  wife,  Kitty  Keary 
that  was!  Listening  to  her  and  whispering  with  her!  It  was 
she  started  the  fight  so! 

Shawn  Early.  She  must  have  followed  him  from  her  own 
house.     It  is  likely  some  person  roused  him. 

Tim  Casey.  I  never  knew,  before,  Bartley  Fallon  was  great 
with  Jack  Smith's  wife. 

Mrs.  Tully.  How  would  you  know  it?  Sure  it's  not  in 
the  streets  they  would  be  calling  it.  If  Mrs.  Fallon  didn't 
know  of  it,  and  if  I  that  have  the  next  house  to  them  didn't 


i66  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

know  of  it,  and  if  Jack  Smith  himself  didn't  know  of  it,  it  is 
not  likely  you  would  know  of  it,  Tim  Casey. 

Shawn  Early.  Let  Bartley  Fallon  take  charge  of  her  from 
this  out  so,  and  let  him  provide  for  her.  It  is  little  pity  she 
will  get  from  any  person  in  this  parish. 

Tim  Casey.  How  can  he  take  charge  of  her?  Sure  he  has 
a  wife  of  his  own.  Sure  you  don't  think  he'd  turn  souper  and 
marry  her  in  a  Protestant  church? 

James  Ryan.  It  would  be  easy  for  him  to  marry  her  if  he 
brought  her  to  America. 

Shawn  Early.  With  or  without  Kitty  Keary,  believe  me 
it  is  for  America  he's  making  at  this  minute.  I  saw  the  new 
magistrate  and  Jo  Muldoon  of  the  police  going  into  the  post- 
office  as  I  came  up — there  was  hurry  on  them — you  may  be 
sure  it  was  to  telegraph  they  went,  the  way  he'll  be  stopped  in 
the  docks  at  Queenstown ! 

Mrs.  Tully.  It's  likely  Kitty  Keary  is  gone  with  him,  and 
not  minding  a  sheet  or  a  wake  at  all.  The  poor  man,  to  be 
deserted  by  his  own  wife,  and  the  breath  hardly  gone  out  yet 
from  his  body  that  is  lying  bloody  in  the  field!  [Enter  Mrs. 
Fallon.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  What  is  it  the  whole  of  the  town  is  talking 
about?  And  what  is  it  you  yourselves  are  talking  about? 
Is  it  about  my  man  Bartley  Fallon  you  are  talking?  Is  it 
lies  about  him  you  are  telling,  saying  that  he  went  killing  Jack 
Smith?     My  grief  that  ever  he  came  into  this  place  at  all! 

James  Ryan.  Be  easy  now,  Mrs.  Fallon.  Sure  there  is  no 
one  at  all  in  the  whole  fair  but  is  sorry  for  you! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Sorry  for  me,  is  it?  Why  would  anyone  be 
sorry  for  me?  Let  you  be  sorry  for  yourselves,  and  that  there 
may  be  shame  on  you  forever  and  at  the  day  of  judgment,  for 
the  words  you  are  saying  and  the  lies  you  are  telling  to  take 
away  the  character  of  my  poor  man,  and  to  take  the  good  name 
off  of  him,  and  to  drive  him  to  destruction!  That  is  what 
5'ou  are  doing! 

Shawn  Early.  Take  comfort  now,  Mrs.  Fallon.  The 
police  are  not  so  smart  as  they  think.  Sure  he  might  give  them 
the  slip  yet,  the  same  as  Lynchehaun. 

Mrs.  Tully.  If  they  do  get  him,  and  if  they  do  put  a  rope 
around  his  neck,  there  is  no  one  can  say  he  does  not  deserve  it ! 

Mrs.  Fallon.    Is  that  what  you  are  saying,  Bridget  Tully, 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  167 

and  Is  that  what  you  think?  I  tell  you  it's  too  much  talk  you 
have,  making  yourself  out  to  be  such  a  great  one,  and  to  be 
running  down  every  respectable  person !  A  rope,  is  it  ?  It  isn't 
much  of  a  rope  was  needed  to  tie  up  your  own  furniture  the 
day  you  came  into  Martin  Tully's  house,  and  you  never  bring- 
ing as  much  as  a  blanket,  or  a  penny,  or  a  suit  of  clothes  with 
you  and  I  myself  bringing  seventy  pounds  and  two  feather 
beds.  And  now  you  are  stiffer  than  a  woman  would  have  a 
hundred  pounds!  It  is  too  much  talk  the  vv^hole  of  you  have. 
A  rope  is  it?  I  tell  you  the  whole  of  this  town  is  full  of  liars 
and  schemers  that  would  hang  you  up  for  half  a  glass  of 
whisky.  [Turning  to  go.]  People  they  are  you  wouldn't  be- 
lieve as  much  as  daylight  from  without  you'd  get  up  to  have  a 
look  at  it  yourself.  Killing  Jack  Smith  indeed!  Where  are 
you  at  all,  Bartley,  till  I  bring  you  out  of  this?  My  nice  quiet 
little  man!  My  decent  comrade!  He  that  is  as  kind  and  as 
harmless  as  an  innocent  beast  of  the  field!  He'll  be  doing  no 
harm  at  all  if  he'll  shed  the  blood  of  some  of  you  after  this 
day's  work!  That  much  would  be  no  harm  at  all.  [Calls 
out.]  Bartley!  Bartley  Fallon!  Where  are  you?  [Going 
out.]  Did  anyone  see  Bartley  Fallon ?  [All  turn  to  look  after 
her.] 

James  Ryan.  It  is  hard  for  her  to  believe  any  such  a  thing, 
God  help  her!  [Enter  Bartley  Fallon  from  right,  carrying 
hayfork.] 

Bartley.  It  is  what  I  often  said  to  myself,  if  there  is  ever 
any  misfortune  coming  to  this  world  it  is  on  myself  it  is  sure  to 
come!      [All  turn  round  and  face  him.] 

Bartley.  To  be  going  about  with  this  fork  and  to  find  no 
one  to  take  it,  and  no  place  to  leave  it  down,  and  I  wanting 
to  be  gone  out  of  this —  Is  that  you,  Shawn  Early?  [Holds 
out  fork.]  It's  well  I  met  you.  You  have  no  call  to  be  leav- 
ing the  fair  for  a  while  the  way  I  have,  and  how  can  I  go  till 
I'm  rid  of  this  fork?  Will  you  take  it  and  keep  it  until  such 
time  as  Jack  Smith — 

Shawn  Early  [backing].  I  will  not  take  it,  Bartley  Fallon, 
I'm  very  thankful  to  you! 

Bartley  [turning  to  apple  stall].  Look  at  it  now,  Mrs. 
Tarpey,  it  was  here  I  got  it ;  let  me  thrust  it  in  under  the  stall. 
It  will  lie  there  safe  enough,  and  no  one  will  take  notice  of  it 
until  such  time  as  Jack  Smith — 


i68  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Take  your  fork  out  of  that!  Is  it  to  put 
trouble  on  me  and  to  destroy  me  you  want?  putting  it  there 
for  the  police  to  be  rooting  it  out  maybe.  [Thrusts  him 
back.] 

Bartley.  That  is  a  very  unneighborly  thing  for  you  to  do, 
Mrs.  Tarpey.  Hadn't  I  enough  care  on  me  with  that  fork  be- 
fore this,  running  up  and  down  with  it  like  the  swinging  of  a 
clock,  and  afeard  to  lay  it  down  in  any  place!  I  wish  I  never 
touched  it  or  meddled  with  it  at  all! 

James  Ryan.    It  is  a  pity,  indeed,  you  ever  did. 

Hartley.  Will  you  yourself  take  it,  James  Ryan?  You 
were  always  a  neighborly  man. 

James  Ryan  [backinff].  There  is  many  a  thing  I  would  do 
for  you,  Bartley  Fallon,  but  I  won't  do  that! 

Shawn  Early.  I  tell  you  there  is  no  man  will  give  you 
any  help  or  any  encouragement  for  this  day's  work.  If  it  was 
something  agrarian  now — 

Bartley.  If  no  one  at  all  will  take  it,  maybe  it's  best  to 
give  it  up  to  the  police. 

Tim  Casey.  There'd  be  a  welcome  for  it  with  them  surely ! 
[Laughter.] 

Mrs.  Tully.  And  it  is  to  the  police  Kitty  Keary  herself 
will  be  brought. 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [rocking  to  and  fro].  I  wonder  now  who 
will  take  the  expense  of  the  wake  for  poor  Jack  Smith? 

Bartley.    The  wake  for  Jack  Smith ! 

Tim  Casey.  Why  wouldn't  he  get  a  wake  as  well  as 
another?    Would  you  begrudge  him  that  much? 

Hartley.    Red  Jack  Smith  dead !    Who  was  telling  you  ? 

Shawn  Early.    The  whole  town  knows  of  it  by  this. 

Bartley.    Do  they  say  what  way  did  he  die? 

James  Ryan.  You  don't  know  that  yourself,  I  suppose, 
Bartley  Fallon?  You  don't  know  he  was  followed  and  that 
he  was  laid  dead  with  the  stab  of  a  hayfork? 

Bartley.    The  stab  of  a  hayfork ! 

Shawn  Early.  You  don't  know,  I  suppose,  that  the  body 
was  found  in  the  Five  Acre  Meadow? 

Bartley.    The  Five  Acre  Meadow ! 

Tim  Casey.  It  is  likely  you  don't  know  that  the  police 
are  after  the  man  that  did  it? 

Bartley.    The  man  that  did  it! 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  169 

Mrs.  Tully.  You  don't  know,  maybe,  that  he  was  made 
away  with  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Keary,  his  wife? 

Bartley.     Kitty  Keary,  his  wife!     [Sits  down  bewildered.] 

Mrs.  Tully.  And  what  have  you  to  say  now,  Bartley 
Fallon  ? 

Bartley  [crossing  himself].  I  to  bring  that  fork  here,  and 
to  find  that  news  before  me !  It  is  much  if  I  can  ever  stir  from 
this  place  at  all,  or  reach  as  far  as  the  road! 

Tim  Casey.  Look,  boys,  at  the  new  magistrate,  and 
Jo  Muldoon  along  with  him!  It's  best  for  us  to  quit 
this. 

Shawn  Early.  That  is  so.  It  is  best  not  to  be  mixed  in 
this  business  at  all. 

James  Ryan.  Bad  as  he  is,  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  an  in- 
former against  any  man.  [All  hurry  away  except  Mrs. 
Tarpey,  who  remains  behind  her  stall.  Enter  Magistrate 
and  Policeman.] 

Magistrate.  I  knew  the  district  was  in  a  bad  state,  but  I 
did  not  expect  to  be  confronted  with  a  murder  at  the  first  fair 
I  came  to. 

Policeman.     I  am  sure  you  did  not,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  It  was  well  I  had  not  gone  home.  I  caught 
a  few  words  here  and  there  that  roused  my  suspicions. 

Policeman.     So  they  would,  too. 

Magistrate.  You  heard  the  same  story  from  everyone  you 
asked  ? 

Policeman.  The  same  story — or  if  it  was  not  altogether 
the  same,  anyway  it  was  no  less  than  the  first  story. 

Magistrate.  What  is  that  man  doing?  He  is  sitting  alone 
with  a  hayfork.  He  has  a  guilty  look.  The  murder  was  done 
with  a  hayfork! 

Policeman  [in  a  whisper].  That's  the  very  man  they  say 
did  the  act;  Bartley  Fallon  himself! 

Magistrate.  He  must  have  found  escape  difficult — he  is 
trying  to  brazen  it  out.  A  convict  in  the  Andaman  Islands 
tried  the  same  game,  but  he  could  not  escape  my  system !  Stand 
aside —  Don't  go  far — have  the  handcuffs  ready.  [He  walks 
up  to  Bartley,  folds  his  arms,  and  stands  before  him.]  Here, 
my  man,  do  you  know  anything  of  John  Smith? 

Bartley.    Of  John  Smith!    Who  is  he,  now? 

Policeman.     Jack  Smith,  sir — Red  Jack  Smith! 


170  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Magistrate  [coming  a  step  nearer  and  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder].     Where  is  Jack  Smith? 

Bartley  [with  a  deep  sigh,  and  shaking  his  head  slowly]. 
Where  is  he,  indeed? 

Magistrate.    What  have  you  to  tell? 

Bartley.  It  is  where  he  was  this  morning,  standing  in  this 
spot,  singing  his  share  of  songs — no,  but  lighting  his  pipe — 
scraping  a  match  on  the  sole  of  his  shoe — 

Magistrate.    I  ask  you,  for  the  third  time,  where  is  he? 

Bartley.  I  wouldn't  like  to  say  that.  It  is  a  great  mys- 
tery, and  it  is  hard  to  say  of  any  man,  did  he  earn  hatred 
or  love. 

Magistrate.    Tell  me  all  you  know. 

Bartley.  All  that  I  know —  Well,  there  are  the  three 
estates;  there  is  Limbo,  and  there  is  Purgatory,  and  there  is — 

Magistrate.  Nonsense!  This  is  trifling!  Get  to  the 
point. 

Bartley.  Maybe  you  don't  hold  with  the  clergy  so  ?  That 
is  the  teaching  of  the  clergy.  Maybe  you  hold  with  the  old 
people.  It  is  what  they  do  be  saying,  that  the  shadow  goes 
wandering,  and  the  soul  is  tired,  and  the  body  is  taking  a  rest — 
The  shadow!  [Starts  up.]  I  was  nearly  sure  I  saw  Jack 
Smith  not  ten  minutes  ago  at  the  corner  of  the  forge,  and  I 
lost  him  again —    Was  it  his  ghost  I  saw,  do  you  think? 

Magistrate  [to  Policeman].  Conscience-struck!  He  will 
confess  all  now! 

Bartley.  His  ghost  to  come  before  me!  It  is  likely  it  was 
on  account  of  the  fork!  I  to  have  it  and  he  to  have  no  way 
to  defend  himself  the  time  he  met  with  his  death! 

Magistrate  [to  Policeman].  I  must  note  down  his  words. 
[Takes  out  notebook.]  [To  Bartley.]  I  warn  you  that 
your  words  are  being  noted. 

Bartley.  If  I  had  ha'  run  faster  in  the  beginning,  this 
terror  would  not  be  on  me  at  the  latter  end!  Maybe  he  will 
cast  it  up  against  me  at  the  day  of  judgment —  I  wouldn't 
wonder  at  all  at  that. 

Magistrate  [writing].    At  the  day  of  judgment — 

Bartley.  It  was  soon  for  his  ghost  to  appear  to  me — is  it 
coming  after  me  always  by  day  it  will  be,  and  stripping  the 
clothes  off  in  the  night  time? —  I  wouldn't  wonder  at  all  at 
that,  being  as  I  am  an  unfortunate  man! 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  171 

Magistrate  [sternly].  Tell  me  this  truly.  What  was  the 
motive  of  this  crime? 

Hartley.    The  motive,  is  it? 

Magistrate.    Yes ;  the  motive ;  the  cause. 

Hartley.     I'd  sooner  not  say  that. 

Magistrate.    You  had  better  tell  me  truly.    Was  it  money? 

Hartley.  Not  at  all!  What  did  poor  Jack  Smith  ever 
have  in  his  pockets  unless  it  might  be  his  hands  that  would  be 
in  them? 

Magistrate.    Any  dispute  about  land? 

Hartley  [indignantly].  Not  at  all!  He  never  was  a 
grabber  or  grabbed  from  anyone! 

Magistrate.  You  will  find  it  better  for  you  if  you  tell 
me  at  once. 

Hartley.  I  tell  you  I  wouldn't  for  the  whole  world  wish 
to  say  what  it  was — it  is  a  thing  I  would  not  like  to  be  talk- 
ing about. 

Magistrate.  There  is  no  use  in  hiding  it.  It  will  be  dis- 
covered in  the  end. 

Hartley.  Well,  I  suppose  it  will,  seeing  that  mostly  every- 
body knovi^s  it  before.  Whisper  here  now.  I  will  tell  no  lie; 
where  would  be  the  use?  [Puts  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and 
Magistrate  stoops.]  Don't  be  putting  the  blame  on  the 
parish,  for  such  a  thing  was  never  done  in  the  parish  before — 
it  was  done  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Keary,  Jack  Smith's 
wife. 

Magistrate  [to  Policeman].  Put  on  the  handcuffs.  We 
have  been  saved  some  trouble.  I  knew  he  would  confess  if 
taken  in  the  right  way.     [Policeman  puts  on  handcuffs.] 

Hartley.  Handcuffs  now!  Glory  be!  I  always  said,  if 
there  was  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to  this  place  it  was  on 
myself  it  would  fall.  I  to  be  in  handcuffs!  There's  no  won- 
der at  all  in  that.  [Enter  Mrs.  Fallon,  followed  by  the  rest. 
She  is  looking  back  at  them  as  she  speaks.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Telling  lies  the  whole  of  the  people  of  this 
town  are;  telling  lies,  telling  lies  as  fast  as  a  dog  will  trot! 
Speaking  against  my  poor  respectable  man!  Saying  he  made 
an  end  of  Jack  Smith!  My  decent  comrade!  There  is  no 
better  man  and  no  kinder  man  in  the  whole  of  the  five  parishes! 
It's  little  annoyance  he  ever  gave  to  anyone!  [Tur?is  and  sees 
him.]     What  in  the  earthly  world  do  I  see  before  me?    Hartley 


172  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Fallon  in  charge  of  the  police!    Handcuffs  on  him!    Oh,  Bart- 
ley,  what  did  you  do  at  all  at  all? 

Bartley.  Oh,  Mary,  there  has  a  great  misfortune  come 
upon  me!  It  is  what  I  always  said,  that  if  there  is  ever  any 
misfortune — 

Mrs.  Fallon.  What  did  he  do  at  all,  or  is  it  bewitched 
I  am? 

Magistrate.  This  man  has  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of 
murder. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Whose  charge  is  that?  Don't  believe 
them!  They  are  all  liars  in  this  place!  Give  me  back  my 
man! 

Magistrate.  It  is  natural  you  should  take  his  part,  but 
you  have  no  cause  of  complaint  against  your  neighbors.  He  has 
been  arrested  for  the  murder  of  John  Smith,  on  his  own  con- 
fession. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  The  saints  of  heaven  protect  us!  And  what 
did  he  want  killing  Jack  Smith? 

Magistrate.  It  is  best  you  should  know  all.  He  did  it  on 
account  of  a  love  affair  with  the  murdered  man's  wife. 

Mrs.  Fallon  [sitting  down].  With  Jack  Smith's  wife! 
With  Kitty  Keary! — Ochone,  the  traitor! 

The  Crowd.  A  great  shame,  indeed.  He  is  a  traitor, 
indeed. 

Mrs.  Tully.  To  America  he  was  bringing  her,  Mrs. 
Fallon. 

Bartley.    What  are  you  saying,  Mary?    I  tell  you — 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Don't  say  a  word!  I  won't  listen  to  any 
word  you'll  say!  [Stops  her  ears.\  Oh,  isn't  he  the  treacher- 
ous villain?    Ohone  go  deo! 

Bartley.    Be  quiet  till  I  speak!     Listen  to  what  I  say! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Sitting  beside  me  on  the  ass  car  coming  to 
the  town,  so  quiet  and  so  respectable,  and  treachery  like  that 
in  his  heart! 

Bartley.  Is  it  your  wits  you  have  lost  or  is  it  I  myself  that 
have  lost  my  wits? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  And  it's  hard  I  earned  you,  slaving,  slav- 
ing— and  you  grumbling,  and  sighing,  and  coughing,  and  dis- 
contented, and  the  priest  wore  out  anointing  you,  with  all  the 
times  you  threatened  to  die! 

Bartley.    Let  you  be  quiet  till  I  tell  you! 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  I73 

Mrs.  Fallon.  You  to  bring  such  a  disgrace  into  the  parish. 
A  thing  that  was  never  heard  of  before! 

Bartley.    Will  you  shut  your  mouth  and  hear  me  speaking? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  And  if  it  was  for  any  sort  of  a  fine  hand- 
some woman,  but  for  a  little  fistful  of  a  woman  like  Kitty 
Keary,  that's  not  four  feet  high  hardly,  and  not  three  teeth  in 
her  head  unless  she  got  new  ones!  May  God  reward  you, 
Bartley  Fallon,  for  the  black  treachery  in  your  heart  and  the 
wickedness  in  your  mind,  and  the  red  blood  of  poor  Jack 
Smith  that  is  wet  upon  your  hand!  [Voice  of  Jack  Smith 
heard  singing.^ 

The  sea  shall  be  dry, 

The  earth  under  mourning  and  ban! 
Then  loud  shall  he  cry 

For  the  wife  of  the  red-haired  man! 

Bartley.  It's  Jack  Smith's  voice — I  never  knew  a  ghost  to 
sing  before —  It  is  after  myself  and  the  fork  he  is  coming! 
[Goes  back.  Enter  Jack  Smith.]  Let  one  of  you  give  him 
the  fork  and  I  will  be  clear  of  him  now  and  for  eternity! 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us!  Red  Jack 
Smith!    The  man  that  was  going  to  be  waked! 

James  Ryan.    Is  it  back  from  the  grave  you  are  come? 

Shawn  Early.    Is  it  alive  you  are,  or  is  it  dead  you  are? 

Tim  Casey.     Is  it  yourself  at  all  that's  in  it? 

Mrs.  Tully.     Is  it  letting  on  you  were  to  Le  dead? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Dead  or  alive,  let  you  stop  Kitty  Keary, 
your  wife,  from  bringing  my  man  away  with  her  to  America! 

Jack  Smith.  It  is  what  I  think,  the  wits  are  gone  astray 
on  the  whole  of  you.  What  would  my  wife  want  bringing 
Bartley  Fallon  to  America? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  To  leave  yourself,  and  to  get  quit  of  you  she 
wants,  Jack  Smith,  and  to  bring  him  away  from  myself.  That's 
what  the  two  of  them  had  settled  together. 

Jack  Smith.  I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man  that  says  that! 
Who  is  it  says  it?  [To  Tim  Casey.]  Was  it  you  said  it? 
[To  Shawn  Early.]     Was  it  you? 

All  together  [backing  and  shaking  their  heads].  It 
wasn't  I  said  it! 

Jack  Smith.    Tell  me  the  name  of  any  man  that  said  it! 


174  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

All  together   [pointing  to  Bartley].     It  was  him  that 

said  it! 

Jack  Smith.  Let  me  at  him  till  I  break  his  head!  [Bart- 
ley backs  in  terror.    Neighbors  hold  Jack  Smith  back.] 

Jack  Smith  [trying  to  free  himself].  Let  me  at  him!  Isn't 
he  the  pleasant  sort  of  a  scarecrow  for  any  woman  to  be  cross- 
ing the  ocean  with !  It's  back  from  the  docks  of  New  York 
he'd  be  turned  [trying  to  rush  at  him  again],  with  a  lie  in  his 
mouth  and  treacherj^  in  his  heart,  and  another  man's  wife  by 
his  side,  and  he  passing  her  off  as  his  own!  Let  me  at  him, 
can't  you.     [Makes  another  rush,  but  is  held  back.] 

Magistrate  [pointing  to  Jack  Smith].  Policeman,  put 
the  handcuffs  on  this  man.  I  see  it  all  now.  A  case  of  false- 
impersonation,  a  conspiracy  to  defeat  the  ends  of  justice.  There 
was  a  case  in  the  Andaman  Islands,  a  murderer  of  the  Mopsa 
tribe,  a  religious  enthusiast — 

Policeman.     So  he  might  be,  too. 

Magistrate.  We  must  take  both  these  men  to  the  scene  of 
the  murder.  We  must  confront  them  with  the  body  of  the  real 
Jack  Smith. 

Jack  Smith.  I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man  that  will  find 
my  dead  body! 

Magistrate.  I'll  call  more  help  from  the  barracks.  [Blows 
Policeman's  whistle.] 

Bartley.  It  is  what  I  am  thinking,  if  myself  and  Jack 
Smith  are  put  together  in  the  one  cell  for  the  night,  the  hand- 
cuffs will  be  taken  off  him,  and  his  hands  will  be  free,  and 
murder  will  be  done  that  time  surely ! 

Magistrate.     Come  on!     [They  turn  to  the  right.] 


[the  curtain.] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 


175 


MUSIC  FOR  THE  SONG  IN  THE  PLAY 

THE  RED-HAIRED  MAN'S  WIFE 
Spreading  the  News, 


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122 


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J    .J    J    J 


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1   would   leap     with    the    leap      of  a    swan, 


:^ 


^-J-4i.Jr"^-^=^^=^fej^ 


ii 


Till        1         came  to 


tba 


sidd 


Iff        ™^ .      fgi 


i    i    J 


-JP 


of    the      vrifo 


of     the     red 'haired    man> 


176 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 


The  idea  of  this  play  first  came  to  me  as  a  tragedy.  I  kept  seeing  as 
in  a  picture  people  sitting  by  the  roadside,  and  a  girl  passing  to  the 
market,  gay  and  fearless.  And  then  I  saw  her  passing  bv  the  same 
place  at  evening,  her  head  hanging,  the  heads  of  others  turned  from 
her,  because  of  some  sudden  story  that  had  risen  out  of  a  chance  word, 
and  had  snatched  away  her  good  name. 

But  comedy  and  not  tragedy  was  wanted  at  our  theatre  to  put  beside 
the  high  poetic  work.  The  King's  Threshold,  The  Shadowy  Waters, 
On  Baile's  Strand,  The  Well  of  the  Saints;  and  I  let  laughter  have 
4ts  way  with  the  little  play.  I  was  delayed  in  beginning  it  for  a 
while,  because  I  could  only  think  of  Bartley  Fallon  as  dull-witted  or 
silly  or  ignorant,  and  the  handcuffs  seemed  too  harsh  a  punishment. 
But  one  day  by  the  seat  at  Duras  a  melancholy  man  who  was  telling 
me  of  the  crosses  he  had  gone  through  at  home  said — "But  I'm  think- 
ing if  I  went  to  America,  it's  long  ago  to-day  I'd  be  dead.  And  it's  a 
great  expense  for  a  poor  man  to  be  buried  in  America."  Bartley  was 
born  at  that  moment,  and,  far  from  harshness,  I  felt  I  was  providing 
him  with  a  happy  old  age  in  giving  him  the  lasting  glory  of  that  great 
and   crowning   day   of   misfortune. 

It  has  been  acted  very  often  by  other  companies  as  well  as  our  own, 
and  the  Boers  have  done  me  the  honor  of  translating  and  pirating  it. 


WELSH  HONEYMOON* 

By 
JEANNETTE  MARKS 


♦Copyright,  1912,  1916,  1917,  by  Jeannette  Marks.  The  professional 
and  amateur  stage  rights  of  this  play  are  strictly  reserved  by  the 
author.  Application  for  permission  to  produce  the  play  should  be 
made  to  the  author,  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  of  the  publishers. 
Little,  Brown  and  Company,  Boston.    All  rights  reserved. 


Jeannette  Marks,  playwright,  poet,  essayist,  and  writer  of 
short  stories,  was  born  in  1875  at  Chattanooga,  Tennessee.  She 
grew  up  in  Philadelphia,  however,  where  her  father  was  a 
member  of  the  faculty  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  Her 
education  in  this  country  was  supplemented  by  a  sojourn  at  a 
school  in  Dresden.  She  took  her  iirst  degree  at  Wellesley  Col- 
lege in  1900,  and  her  master's  degree  there  in  1903.  Her 
graduate  studies  were  pursued  at  the  Bodleian  Library  and  at 
the  British  Museum.  Since  1901  she  has  taught  English  lit- 
erature at  Mount  Holyoke. 

The  play  here  reprinted,  Welsh  Honeymoon,  was  one  of  the 
two — the  other  was  her  The  Merry,  Merry  Cuckoo — that  won 
the  Welsh  National  Theatre  First  Prize  for  the  best  Welsh 
plays  in  November,  191 1,  the  year  after  Josephine  Preston 
Peabody  had  carried  off  the  palm  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

She  writes  in  her  preface  to  Three  Welsh  Plays,  the  collec- 
tion from  which  Welsh  Honeymoon  is  drawn: 

Poetry  '  and  '  song  '  are  words  which  convey,  better  than 
any  other  two  words  could,  the  priceless  gifts  of  the  Welsh 
people  to  the  world.  With  their  love  for  music,  for  beauty, 
for  the  significance  of  their  land  and  its  folklore,  their  inherent 
romance  in  the  difficult  art  of  living,  they  have  transformed 
ugliness  into  beauty,  turned  loneliness  into  speech,  and  ever 
recalled  life  to  i^  only  permanent  possessions  in  wonder  and 
romance. 

"  Curiously  enough,  the  Welsh,  rich  in  poetry  and  music, 
have  been  almost  altogether  devoid  of  pla3'S.  But  no  one  who 
has  read  those  first  Welsh  tales  in  the  '  Mabinogion  '  (c.  1260) 
could  for  an  instant  think  the  Cymru  devoid  of  the  dramatic 
instinct.  The  Welsh  way  of  interpreting  experience  is  essen- 
tially dramatic.  The  Dream  of  Maxen  Wledig,  The  Dream 
of  Rhonabwy,  both  from  the  '  Mabinogion,'  are  sharply  dra- 
matic, although  then  and  later  Welsh  literature  remained  prac- 
tically devoid  of  the  play  form.  Experience  dramatized  is,  too, 
that  Pilgrim's  Progress  of  Gwalia:  '  Y  Bardd  Cwsg '   (1703). 

"  Every  gift  of  the  Welsh  would  seem  to  promise  the  realiza- 

179 


i8o  WELSH  HONEYMOON 

tion  some  day  of  a  great  national  drama,  for  they  have  not  only 
the  gift  of  poetry  and  the  power  to  seize  the  symbol — short  cut 
through  experience — which  can,  even  as  the  crutch  of  Ibsen's 
Little  Eyolf,  lift  a  play  into  greatness;  they  have,  also,  natures 
profoundly  emotional  and  yet  intellectually  critical.  They  are, 
humanly  speaking,  perfect  tools  for  the  achievement  of  great 
drama.  But  it  is  a  drab  journey  from  those  '  Mabinogion  ' 
days  of  wonder,  coarse  and  crude  as  they  were  in  many  ways, 
yet  intensely  vital,  through  the  *  Bardd  Cwsg '  to  Twm  o'r 
Nant  (1739-1810)  the  so-called  'Welsh  Shakespeare,'  whose 
Interludes  might,  with  sufficient  worrying,  afford  delectation 
to  the  rock-ribbed  Puritanism  which  has  stood,  as  much  as  any 
other  oppression,  in  the  way  of  Gwalia's  full  development  of 
her  genius  for  beauty. 

"  It  was,  then,  a  significant  moment  when  '  The  Welsh  Na- 
tional Theatre  '  came  into  existence  with  so  powerful  a  patron 
as  Lord  Howard  de  Walden,  lessee  of  the  Haymarket,  and 
Owen  Rhoscomyl  (Captain  Owen  Vaughan)  and  other  gifted 
Welsh  literati  for  its  sponsors.  And  it  did  not  seem  an  insig- 
nificant moment  to  one  person,  the  playwright  of  The  Merry 
Merry  Cuckoo  and  Welsh  Honeymoon,  when  she  learned 
through  her  friendly  agent,  Curtis  Brown  of  London,  that  she 
had  received  one  of  the  Welsh  National  Theatre's  first  prizes 
(1911)." 

Jeannette  Marks's  interest  in  Wales  is  the  result  of  a  number 
of  holidays  spent  in  wandering  through  its  highways  and 
byways.  Books  of  hers  like  Through  Welsh  Doorways  and 
Gallant  Little  PVales  bespeak  an  affectionate  intimacy  with 
homes  and  inhabitants.  In  the  last  named,  especially,  the  chap- 
ters called  "  Cambrian  Cottages  "  and  "  Welsh  Wales  "  contain 
material  that  is  highly  illuminating  in  connection  with  the  in- 
terpretation of  her  plays.  Edward  Knobloch,  the  playwright,  is 
said  to  have  pointed  out  to  the  author  the  dramatic  situations 
inherent  in  her  short  stories  and  sketches,  a  suggestion  which 
bore  fruit  in  Three  Welsh  Plays. 

The  first  performance  of  Welsh  Honeymoon  was  given  by 
the  American  Drama  Society  in  Boston  in  February,  1916.  It 
has  also  been  produced  by  the  Boston  Women's  City  Club,  the 
Vagabond  Players  in  Baltimore,  the  Hull  House  Players  in 
Chicago,  and  the  Prince  Street  Players  in  Rochester. 


WELSH  HONEYMOON^ 

CHARACTERS 

Vavasour  Jones. 
Catherine  Jones,  his  wife. 
■-EiLiR  Morris,  nephew  of  Vavasour  Jones. 
Mrs.  Morgan,  the  baker. 
Howell  Howell,  the  milliner. 

PLACE. — Beddgelert,  a  little  village  in  North  Wales. 

A  Welsh  kitchen.  At  back,  in  center,  a  deep  ingle,  with  two 
hobs  and  fire  bars  fixed  between,  on  either  side  settles.  On 
the  left-hand  side  near  the  fire  a  church;  on  the  right,  in 
a  pile,  some  peat  ready  for  use.  Above  the  fireplace  is  a 
mantel  on  which  are  set  some  brass  candlesticks,  a  deep 
copper  cheese  bowl,  and  two  pewter  plates.  Near  the  left 
settle  is  a  three-legged  table  set  with  teapot,  cups  and 
saucers  for  two,  a  plate  of  bread  and  butter,  a  plate  of 
jam,  and  a  creamer.  At  the  right  and  to  the  right  of  the 
door,  is  a  tall,  highly  polished,  oaken  grandfather's  clock, 
with  a  shining  brass  face;  to  the  left  of  the  door  is  a 
tridarn.  The  tridarn  dresser  is  lined  with  bright  blue 
paper  and  filled  with  luster  china.     The  floor  is  of  beaten 

'  PRONUNCIATION  OF  WELSH  NAMES 

I  ch  has,  roughly,  the  same  sound  as  in  German  or  in  the  Scotch  loch, 
z  dd^  English  th,  roughly,  in  breaf^e. 

3  e  has,  roughly,  the  sound  of  at  in  dairy. 

4  /=    English  v. 

5  j9^=i  English  sharp  /. 

6  //  represents  a  sound  intermediate  between  the  and  H. 

7  w  as  a  consonant  is  pronounced  as  in  English;  as  a  vowel  =  oo. 

8  >/  is  sometimes  like  u  in  hut,  but  sometimes  like  ee  in  ^veen. 

Note:  The  author  ivill  gladly  ansiuer  questions  about  pronunciation, 
costuming,  etc.,  etc. 

i8i 


i82  WELSH  HONEYMOON 

clay,  whitewashed  around  the  edges;  from  the  rafters  of 
the  peaked  ceiling  hang  flitches  of  bacon,  hams,  and  bunches 
of  onions  and  herbs.  On  the  hearth  is  a  copper  kettle 
singing  gaily;  and  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace  are 
latticed  windows  opening  into  the  kitchen.  Through  the 
door  to  the  right,  when  open,  may  be  seen  the  flagstones 
and  cottages  of  a  PFelsh  village  street;  through  latticed 
windows  the  twinkling  of  many  village  lights. 

It  is  about  half  after  eleven  on  Allhallows'  Eve  in  the 
village  of  Beddgelert. 

At  rise  of  curtain,  the  windows  of  kitchen  are  closed; 
the  fire  is  burning  brightly,  and  two  candles  are  lighted  on 
the  mantelpiece.  Vavasour  Jones,  about  thirty-five  years 
old,  dressed  in  a  striped  vest,  a  short,  heavy  blue  coat,  cut 
away  in  front,  and  with  swallowtails  behind,  and  trimmed 
with  brass  buttons,  and  somewhat  tight  trousers  down  to 
his  boot  tops,  is  standing  by  the  open  door  at  the  right, 
looking  out  anxiously  on  to  the  glittering,  rain-wet  flag- 
stone street  and  calling  after  someone. 

Vavasour  ^  [calling].  Kats,  Kats,  mind  ye  come  home  soon 
from  Pally  Hughes's! 

Catherine  [from  a  distance].  Aye,  I'm  no  vvantin'  to  go, 
but  I  must.    Good-by! 

Vavasour.  Good-by!  Kats,  ye  mind  about  comin'  home? 
[There  is  no  reply,  and  Vavasour  looks  still  further  into  the 
rain-wet  street.  He  calls  loudly  and  desperately.]  Kats,  Kats 
darlin',  I  cannot  let  you  go  without  tellin'  ye  that — Kats,  do 
ye  hear?  [There  is  still  no  reply  and  after  one  more  searching 
of  the  street,  Vavasour  closes  the  door  and  sits  down  on  the 
end  of  the  nearest  settle.] 

Vavasour.  Dear,  dear,  she's  gone,  an'  I  may  never  see  her 
again,  an'  I'm  to  blame,  an'  she  didn't  know  whatever  that  in 
the  night —  [Loud  knocking  on  the  closed  door;  Vavasour 
jumps  and  stands  irresolute.]  The  devil,  it  can't  be  comin'  for 
her  already?     [The  knocking  grows  louder.] 

Voice  [calling].    Catherine,  Vavasour,  are  ye  in? 

Vavasour  [opening  the  door].    Aye,  come  in,  whoever  ye 

*  The  a's  are  broad  throughout,  i.  e.,  Kats  is  pronounced  Kaats; 
Vavasour  is  Vavasoor:  ou  is  oo. 


WELSH  HONEYMOON  183 

•are.  [Mrs.  Morgan,  the  Baker,  dressed  in  a  scarlet  whittle 
and  freshly  starched  white  cap  beneath  her  tall  Welsh  beaver 
hat  J  enters,  shaking  the  rain  from  her  cloak. \ 

Mrs.  Morgan.    Where's  Catherine  ? 

Vavasour.     She's  gone,  Mrs.  Morgan. 

Mrs.  Morgan.  Gone?  Are  ye  no  goin'?  Not  goin'  to 
Pally  Hughes's  on  Allhallows'  Eve? 

Vavasour  [shaking  his  head  and  looking  very  zvhite].  Nay, 
I'm  no  feelin'  well. 

Mrs.  Morgan.    Aye,  I  see  ye're  ill? 

Vavasour.  Well,  I'm  not  ill,  but  I'm  not  well.  Not  well 
at  all,  Mrs.  Morgan. 

Mrs.  Morgan.  We'll  miss  ye,  but  I  must  hurryin'  on  what- 
ever; I'm  late  now.     Good-night! 

Vavasour  [speaking  drearily].  Good-night!  [He  closes 
the  door  and  returns  to  the  settle,  where  he  sits  down  by  the 
pile  of  peat  and  drops  his  head  in  his  hand.  Then  he  starts  up 
nervously  for  no  apparent  cause  and  opens  one  of  the  lattice 
windows.  With  an  exclamation  of  fear,  he  slams  it  to  and 
throws  his  weight  against  the  door.  Calling  and  holding  hard 
to  the  door.]  Ye've  no  cause  to  come  here!  Ye  old  death's 
head,  get  away!  [Outside  there  is  loud  pounding  on  the  door 
and  a  voice  shouting  for  admittance.  Vavasour  is  obliged  to 
fall  back  as  the  door  is  gradually  forced  open,  and  a  head  is 
thrust  in,  a  white  handkerchief  tied  over  it.] 

Howell  Howell  [seeing  the  terror-stricken  face  of  Vava- 
sour]. Well,  man,  what  ails  ye;  did  ye  thinlc  I  was  a  ghost? 
[Howell  Howell,  the  Milliner,  in  highlows  and  a  plum- 
colored  coat,  a  handkerchief  on  his  hat,  enters,  stamping  off  the 
rain  and  closing  the  door.  He  carefully  wipes  off  his  plum- 
colored  sleeves  and  speaks  indignantly.]  Well,  man,  are  ye 
crazy,  keepin'  me  out  in  the  rain  that  way  ?  Where's  Catherine  ? 

Vavasour  [stammering].     She's  at  P-p-p-ally  Hughes's. 

Howell  Howell.    Are  ye  no  goin'? 

Vavasour.    Nay,  Howell  Howell,  I'm  no  goin'. 

Howell  Howell.  An'  dressed  in  your  best?  What's  the 
matter?     Have  ye  been  drinkin'  whatever? 

Vavasour  [wrathfully].  Drinkin'!  I'd  better  be  drinkin' 
when  neighbors  go  walkin'  round  the  village  on  Allhallows' 
Eve  with  their  heads  done  up  in  white. 

Howell  Howell.     Aye,  well,  I  can't  be  spoilin'  the  new 


i84  WELSH  HONEYMOON 

hat  I  have,  that  I  cannot.  A  finer  beaver  there  has  never  been 
in  my  shop.  [He  takes  off  the  handkerchief,  hangs  it  where 
the  heat  of  the  fire  will  dry  it  a  hit,  and  then,  removing  the 
heaver,  shows  it  to  Vavasour,  turning  it  this  way  and  that.] 
Vavasour  [absent-mindedly].    Aye,  grand,  grand,  man! 

Howell  Howell.    What  are  ye  gazin'  at  the  clock  for? 

Vavasour  [guiltily].     I'm  no  lookin'  at  anything. 

Howell  Howell.  Well,  indeed,  I  must  be  goin',  or  I  shall 
be  late  at  Pally  Hughes's.    Good-night. 

Vavasour.  Good-night.  [He  closes  the  door  and  stands 
before  the  clock,  studying  it.  While  he  is  studying  its  face  the 
door  opens  slowly,  and  the  tumbled,  curly  head  of  a  lad  about 
eighteen  years  of  age  peers  in.  The  door  continues  slowly  to 
open.  Vavasour  unconscious  all  the  while.]  'Tis  ten  now. 
Ten,  eleven,  twelve;  that's  three  hours  left,  'tis;  nay,  nay,  'tis 
only  two  hours  left,  after  all,  an'  then — 

ElLiR  Morris  [bounding  in  and  shutting  the  door  behind 
him  luith  a  bang].     Boo!    Whoo — o — o! 

Vavasour  [his  face  blanched,  dropping  limply  on  to  the 
settle].     The  devil! 

EiLiR  Morris  [troubled].  Uch,  the  pity,  Uncle!  I  didn't 
think,  an'  ye're  ill! 

Vavasour.  Tut,  tut,  'tis  no  matter,  an'  I'm  not  ill — not  ill 
at  all,  but  Eilir,  lad,  ye're  kin,  an' — could  ye  promise  never 
to  tell? 

Eilir  Morris  [who  thinks  his  uncle  has  been  drinking, 
speaks  to  him  as  if  he  would  humor  his  whim].  Aye,  Uncle, 
I'm  kin,  an'  I  promise.     Tell  on.     V/hat  is  it?     Are  ye  sick? 

Vavasour  [drearily].    Uch,  lad,  I'm  not  sick! 

Eilir  Morris.    Well,  what  ails  ye? 

Vavasour.     'Tis  Allhallows'  Eve  an' — 

Eilir  Morris.    Aren't  ye  goin'  to  Pally  Hughes's? 

Vavasour  [moaning  and  rising].  Ow,  the  devil,  goin'  to 
Pally  Hughes's  while  'tis  drawin'  nearer  an'  nearer  an' — Ow! 
'Tis  the  night  when  Catherine  must  go. 

Eilir  Morris.  When  Aunt  Kats  must  go!  What  do  you 
mean? 

Vavasour.     She'll  be  dead  to-night  at  twelve. 

Eilir  Morris  [beiuildered].  Dead  at  twelve?  But  she's  at 
Pally  Hughes's.     Does  she  know  it? 

Vavasour.    No,  but  I  do,  an'  to  think  I've  been  unkind  to 


WELSH  HONEYMOON  185 

her!  I've  tried  this  year  to  make  up  for  it,  but  'tis  no  use,  lad; 
one  year'll  never  make  up  for  ten  of  harsh  vi^ords,  what- 
ever. Ow!  [Groaning,  Vavasour  collapses  on  to  the  settle 
and  rocks  to  and  fro,  moaning  aloud.] 

EiLiR  Morris  [mystified].  Well,  ye've  not  been  good  to 
her,  Uncle,  that's  certain;  but  ye've  been  different  the  past 
year. 

Vavasour  [sobbing].  Aye,  but  a  year'll  not  do  any  good, 
an' she'll  be  dyin' at  twelve  to-night.  Ow!  I've  turned  to  the 
scriptures  to  see  what  it  says  about  a  man  an'  his  wife,  but 
it'll  no  do,  no  do,  no  do! 

EiLiR  Morris.    Have  ye  been  drinkin'.  Uncle? 
Vavasour  [hotly].     Drinkin'! 

EiLiR  Morris.  Well,  indeed,  no  harm,  but.  Uncle,  I  can- 
not understand  why  Aunt  Kats's  goin'  an'  where. 

Vavasour  [rising  suddenly  from  the  settle  and  seizing  EiLiR 
by  the  coat  lapel].    She's  goin'  to  leave  me,  lad;  'tis  Allhallows' 
Eve  whatever!    An'  she'll  be  dyin'  at  twelve.    Aye,  a  year  ago 
things  were  so  bad  between  us,  on  Allhallows'  Eve  I  went  down 
to  the  church  porch  shortly  before  midnight  to  see  whether  the 
spirit  of  your  Aunt  Kats  would  be  called  an' — 
EiLiR  Morris.    Uncle,  'twas  fair  killin'  her! 
Vavasour.     I  wanted  to  see  whether  she  would  live  the 
twelve  months  out.     An'  as  I  was  leanin'  against  the  church 
wall,  hopin',  aye,  lad,  prayin'  to  see  her  spirit  there,  an'  know 
she'd  die,  I  saw  somethin'  comin'  'round  the  corner  with  white 
over  its  head. 

EiLiR  Morris  [uailing].    Ow — w! 

Vavasour.     It  drew  nearer  an'  nearer,  an'  when  it  came  in 
full  view  of  the  church  porch,  it  paused,  it  whirled  around  like 
that,  an'  sped  away  with  the  shroud  flappin'  about  its  feet,  an' 
the  rain  beatin'  down  on  its  white  hood. 
EiLiR  Morris  [wailing  again].    Ow — w! 
Vavasour.      But   there   was    time   to   see   that   it   was   the 
spirit  of  Catherine,  an'  I  was  glad  because  my  wicked  prayer 
had  been  answered,  an'  because  with  Catherine  dyin'  the  next 
Allhallows',  we'd  have  to  live  together  only  the  year  out. 
EiLiR  Morris  [raising  his  hand].     Hush,  what's  that? 
Vavasour.     'Tis  voices  whatever.     [Both  listen,  Eilir  goes 
to  the  window,  Vavasour  to  the  door.     The  voices  become 
louder.] 


i86  WELSH  HONEYMOON 

EiLiR  Morris.     They're  singin'  a  song  at  Pally  Hughes's. 
[Voices  are  audibly  singing :\ 

Ni  awn  adre  bawb  dan  ganu, 

Ar  hyd  y  nos; 
Saif  ein  hiaith  safo  Cymru, 

Ar  hyd  y  nos; 
Bydded  undeb  a  brawdgarwch 
Ini'n  gwlwm  diogelwch, 
Felly  canwn  er  hyfrydwch, 

Ar  hyd  y  nos. 

Sweetly  sang  beside  a  fountain, 

All  through  the  night, 
Mona's  maiden  on  that  mountain, 

All  through  the  night. 
When  wilt  thou,  from  war  returning. 
In  whose  breast  true  love  is  burning, 
Come  and  change  to  joy  my  mourning. 

By  day  and  night? 

Vavasour.  Aye,  they're  happy,  an'  Kats  does  not  know.  I 
went  home  that  night,  lad,  thinkin'  'twas  the  last  year  we'd 
have  to  live  together,  an',  considerin'  as  'twas  the  last  year, 
I  might  just  as  well  try  to  be  decent  an'  kind.  An'  when  I 
reached  home,  Catherine  was  up  waitin'  for  me  an'  spoke  so 
pleasantly,  an'  we  sat  down  an'  had  a  long  talk — just  like  the 
days  when  we  were  courtin'. 

EiLiR  Morris.     Did  she  know.  Uncle? 

Vavasour  [puzzled].  Nay,  how  could  she  know.  But  she 
seems  queer, — as  if  she  felt  the  evil  comin'.  Well,  indeed,  each 
day  was  sweeter  than  the  one  before,  an'  we  were  man  an'  wife 
in  love  an'  kindness  at  last,  but  all  the  while  I  was  thinkin' 
of  that  figure  by  the  churchyard.  Lad,  lad,  ye'll  be  marryin' 
before  long, — be  good  to  her,  lad,  be  good  to  her!  [Vavasour 
lets  go  the  lapels  of  Eilir's  coat  and  sinks  back  on  to  the  settle, 
half  sobbing.  Outside  the  roar  of  wind  and  rain  growing 
louder  can  be  heard.] 

Vavasour  [looking  at  the  clock].  An'  here  'tis  Allhallows' 
Eve  again,  an'  the  best  year  of  my  life  is  past,  an'  she  must  die 
in  an  hour  an'  a  half.     Ow,  ow!     It  has  all  come  from  my 


WELSH  HONEYMOON  187 

own  evil  heart  an'  evil  wish.  Think,  lad,  prayin'  for  her 
callin';  aye,  goin'  there,  hopin'  ye'd  see  her  spirit,  an'  countin' 
on  her  death! 

EiLiR  Morris  [mournfully].  Aye,  Uncle,  'tis  bad,  an'  I've 
no  word  to  say  to  ye  for  comfort.  I  recollect  well  the  story 
Granny  used  to  tell  about  Christmas  Pryce ;  'twas  somethin'  the 
same  whatever.  An'  there  was  Betty  Williams  was  called  a 
year  ago,  an'  is  dead  now;  an'  there  was  Silvan  Griffith,  an' 
Geffery,  his  friend,  an'  Silvan  had  just  time  to  dig  Geffery's 
grave  an'  then  his  own,  too,  by  its  side,  an'  they  was  buried 
the  same  day  an'  hour. 

Vavasour  [wailing].  Ow — w — w!  [At  that  moment  the 
door  is  blown  violently  open  by  the  wind;  both  men  jump  and 
stare  out  into  the  dark  where  only  the  dimmed  lights  of  the 
rain-swept  street  are  to  be  seen,  and  the  very  bright  windows 
of  Pally  Hughes's  cottage.] 

EiLiR  Morris.    Uch,  she'll  be  taken  there! 

Vavasour.  Aye,  an',  Eilir,  she  was  loath  to  go  to  Pally 's, 
but  I  could  not  tell  her  the  truth. 

Eilir  Morris.    Are  ye  not  goin',  Uncle  ? 

Vavasour.  Nay,  lad,  I  cannot  go.  I'm  fair  crazy.  I'll 
just  be  stayin'  home,  waitin'  for  them  to  bring  her  back. 
Ow — w — w ! 

Eilir  Morris.  Tut,  tut.  Uncle,  I'm  sorry.  I'll  just  see  for 
ye  what  they're  doin'.  [Eilir  steps  out  and  is  gone  for  an 
instant.     He  comes  back  excitedly.] 

Vavasour  [shouting  after  him].    Can  ye  see  her,  lad? 

Eilir  Morris  [returning].  Dear,  they've  a  grand  display, 
raisins  an'  buns,  an'  spices  an'  biscuits — 

Vavasour.    But  your  Aunt  Kats? 

Eilir  Morris.  Aye,  an'  a  grand  fire,  an'  a  tub  with  apples 
in  it  an' — 

Vavasour.     But  Catherine? 

Eilir  Morris.  Aye,  she  was  there  near  the  fire,  an'  just 
as  I  turned,  they  blew  the  lights  out. 

Vavasour.  Blew  the  lights  out !  Uch,  she'll  be  taken  there 
whatever ! 

Eilir  Morris.    They're  tellin'  stories  in  the  dark. 

Vavasour.  Go  back  again  an'  tell  what  ye  can  see  of  your 
Aunt  Kats,  lad. 

Eilir  Morris.    Aye. 


i88  WELSH  HONEYMOON 

Vavasour  [shouting  after  him].  Find  where  she's  sittin', 
lad — make  certain  of  that. 

EiLiR  Morris  [running  in  breathless].  They're  throwin' 
nuts  on  the  fire — 

Vavasour.    Is  she  there? 

EiLiR  Morris.  I'm  thinkin'  she  is,  but  old  Pally  Hughes 
was  just  throwin'  a  nut  on  the  fire  an' — 

Vavasour  [impatiently],  'Tis  no  matter  about  Pally 
Hughes  whatever,  but  your  Aunt  Kats,  did — 

EiLiR  Morris.  There  was  only  the  light  of  the  fire;  I  did 
not  see  her,  but  I'll  go  again. 

Vavasour.    Watch  for  her  nut  an'  see  does  it  burn  brightly. 

EiLiR  Morris  [going  out].    Aye. 

Vavasour  [calling  after].  Mind,  I'm  wantin'  to  know 
what  she's  doin'.  [He  has  scarcely  spoken  the  last  tvord  when 
a  great  commotion  is  heard:  a  door  across  the  street  being 
slammed  to  violently,  and  the  sound  of  running  feet.  Vavasour 
straightens  up,  his  eyes  in  terror  on  the  door,  which  CATHERINE 
Jones  throws  open  and  bursts  through.] 

Vavasour  [holding  out  his  arms].  Catherine,  is  it  really 
ye!  [Catherine,  after  a  searching  glance  at  him,  draws  her- 
self up.  Vavasour  draws  himself  up,  too,  and  then  stoops  to 
pick  up  some  peat  which  he  puts  on  the  fire,  and  crosses  over  to 
left  and  sits  down  on  the  settle  near  the  chimney,  without  hav- 
ing embraced  her.  Catherine's  face  is  flushed,  her  eyes  wild 
under  the  pretty  white  cap  she  wears,  a  black  Welsh  beaver 
above  it.  She  is  dressed  in  a  scarlet  cloak,  under  this  a  tight 
bodice  and  short,  full  skirt,  bright  stockings,  and  clogs  with 
brass  tips.  Her  apron  is  of  heavy  linen,  striped;  over  her  breast 
a  kerchief  is  crossed,  and  from  the  elbows  down  to  the  wrist 
are  full  white  sleeves  stiffly  starched.] 

Catherine.  Yiss,  yiss,  'twas  dull  at  Pally's — very  dull. 
My  nut  didn't  burn  very  brightly,  an' — an' — well,  indeed,  my 
feet  was  wet,  an'  I  feared  takin'  a  cold. 

Vavasour.  Yiss,  yiss,  'tis  better  for  ye  here,  dearie.  [  Then 
there  is  silence  between  them.  Catherine  still  breathes  heavily 
from  the  running,  and  Vavasour  shuffles  his  feet.  PFhile  they 
are  both  sitting  there,  unable  to  say  a  word,  the  door  opens 
without  a  sound,  and  Eilir's  curly  head  is  thrust  in.  A  gut- 
tural exclamation  from  him  makes  them  start  and  look  towards 
the  door,  but  he  closes  it  before  they  can  see  him.    Catherine 


WELSH  HONEYMOON  189 

then  takes  off  her  beaver  and  looks  at  Vavasour.  Vavasour 
opens  his  mouth,  shuts  it,  and  opens  it  again.] 

Vavasour  [desperately].  Did  ye  have  a  fine  time  at  Pally's? 

Catherine.  Aye,  'twas  gay  an'  fine  an' — an' — yiss,  yiss,  so 
'twas  an'  so  'twasn't. 

Vavasour  [his  eyes  seeking  the  clock],  A  quarter  past 
eleven,  uch !  Katy,  do  ye  recall  Pastor  Evan's  sermon,  the  one 
he  preached  last  New  Year? 

Catherine  [also  glancing  at  the  clock].  Sixteen  minutes 
after  eleven — yiss — yiss — 

Vavasour  [catching  Catherine's  glance  at  the  clock]. 
Well,  Catherine,  do — 

Catherine.  Yiss,  yiss,  I  said  I  did  whatever.  'Twas  about 
inheritin'  the  grace  of  life  together. 

Vavasour.  Kats,  dear,  wasn't  he  sayin'  that  love  is  eternal, 
an'  that — a  man — an' — an' — his  wife  was  lovin'  for — for — 

Catherine  [glancing  at  the  clock  and  meeting  Vavasour's 
eyes  just  glancing  aiuay  from  the  clock].  Aye,  lad,  for  ever- 
lastin'  life!     Uch,  what  have  I  done? 

Vavasour  [unheeding  and  doubling  up  as  if  from  pain]. 
Half  after  eleven!  Yiss,  yiss,  dear,  didn't  he  say  that  the  Lord 
was  mindful  of  us — of  our  difficulties,  an'  our  temptations  an' 
our  mistakes? 

Catherine  [tragically].  Aye,  an'  our  mistakes.  Ow,  ow, 
ow,  but  a  half  hour's  left! 

Vavasour.  Do  ye  think,  dearie,  that  if  a  man  were  to — 
to — uch! — be  unkind  to  his  wife — an'  was  sorry  an'  his  wife — 
his  wife  dies,  that  he'd  be — be — 

Catherine  [tenderly].  Aye,  I'm  thinkin'  so.  An',  lad 
dear,  do  ye  think  if  anythin'  was  to  happen  to  ye  to-night, — 
yiss,  this  night, — that  ye'd  take  any  grudge  against  me  away 
with  ye? 

Vavasour  [stiffening].  Happen  to  me,  Catherine?  [Vava- 
sour collapses,  groaning,  Catherine  goes  to  his  side  on  the 
settle,] 

Catherine  [in  an  agonized  voice],  Uch,  dearie,  what  is  it, 
what  is  it,  what  ails  ye? 

Vavasour  [slanting  an  eye  at  the  clock],  Nothin',  nothin' 
at  all.  Ow,  the  devil,  'tis  twenty  minutes  before  twelve  what- 
ever! 

Catherine.    Lad,  lad,  what  is  it? 


igo  WELSH  HONEYMOON 

Vavasour.  'Tis  nothin',  nothin'  at  all — 'tis — ow! — 'tis  just 
a  little  pain  across  me. 

Catherine  [her  face  whitening  as  she  steals  a  look  at  the 
clock  and  puts  her  arm  around  Vavasour].  Vavasour,  lad 
dear,  is  that  the  wind  in  the  chimney?  Put  your  arm  about 
me  an'  hold  fast. 

Vavasour  [both  hands  across  his  stomach,  his  eyes  on  the 
clock].     Ow — ten  minutes! 

Catherine  [shaking  all  over].     Is  that  a  step  at  the  door? 

Vavasour  [unheeding],  'Tis  goin'  to  strike  now  in  a 
minute. 

Catherine  [her  eyes  in  horror  on  the  clock].  Five  minutes 
before  twelve! 

Vavasour  [almost  crying,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  clock's  face]. 
Uch,  the  toad,  the  serpent! 

Catherine  [her  face  in  her  hands].  Dear  God,  he's  goin' 
now! 

Vavasour  [covering  his  eyes].  Uch,  the  devil!  Uch,  the 
gates  of  hell!  [Catherine  cries  out.  Vavasour  groans  loudly. 
The  clock  is  striking:  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  Six, 
Seven,  Eight,  Nine,  Ten,  Eleven,  Twelve!  The  last  loud  clang 
vibrates  and  subsides.  Through  a  chink  in  her  fingers  Cath- 
erine is  peering  at  Vavasour.  Through  a  similar  chink  his 
agonized  eyes  are  peering  at  her.] 

Catherine  [gulping].     Uch! 

Vavasour.    The  devil! 

Catherine  [putting  out  her  hand  to  touch  him].  Lad, 
dear!  [They  embrace,  they  kiss,  they  dance  inadly  about. 
Then  they  do  it  all  over  again.  While  they  are  doing  this, 
ElLlR  opens  the  door  again  and  thrusts  in  his  head.  He  stares 
open-eyed,  open-mouthed  at  them,  and  leans  around  the  side  of 
the  door  to  see  what  time  it  is,  saying  audibly  "  five  minutes 
past  twelve,"  grunts  his  satisfaction,  and  closes  the  door.] 

Vavasour  [mad  zuith  joy].    Kats,  are  ye  here,  really  here? 

Catherine  [surprised].  Am  /  here?  Tut,  lad,  are  ye 
here? 

Vavasour  [shrewdly].    Yiss,  that  is  are  we  both  here? 

Catherine  [perplexed].    Did  ye  think  I  wasn't  goin'  to  be? 

Vavasour  [suppressed  intelligent  joy  in  his  eyes].  No — o, 
not  that,  only  I  thought,  I  thought  ye  was  goin'  to — to — faint, 
Kats.    I  thought  ye  looked  like  it,  Kats. 


WELSH  HONEYMOON  191 

Catherine  [the  happiness  on  her  face  vanishing,  sinks  on  to 
the  nearest  settle'].  Uch,  I'm  a  bad,  bad  woman,  aye.  Vava- 
sour Jones,  a  bad  woman ! 

Vavasour  [puzzled,  yet  lightly].    Nay,  Kats,  nay! 

Catherine  [desperately  and  almost  in  tears\.  Ye  cannot 
believe  what  I  must  tell  ye.  Lad,  a  year  ago  this  night  I  went 
to  the  church  porch,  hopin',  aye,  prayin',  ye'd  be  called,  that  I'd 
see  your  spirit  walkin'. 

Vavasour  [starting  and  recovering  himself].  Catherine,  ye 
did  that! 

Catherine  [plunging  on  with  her  confession].  Aye,  lad,  I 
did,  I'd  been  so  unhappy  with  the  quarrelin'  an'  hard  words. 
I  could  think  of  nothin'  but  gettin'  rid  of  them. 

Vavasour  [in  a  tone  of  condemnation  and  standing  over 
her].    That  was  bad,  very  bad  indeed! 

Catherine.  An'  then,  lad,  when  I  reached  the  church 
corner  an'  saw  your  spirit  was  really  there,  really  called,  an'  I 
knew  ye'd  not  live  the  year  out,  I  was  frightened,  but  uch !  lad, 
I  was  glad,  I  was  indeed. 

Vavasour  [looking  grave].  Catherine,  'twas  a  terrible  thing 
to  do! 

Catherine  [meekly].  Yiss,  I  know  it  now,  but  I  didn't 
then.  I  was  hard-hearted,  an'  I  was  weak  with  longin'  to 
escape  from  it  all.  An'  when  I  ran  home  I  was  frightened,  but 
uch!  lad,  I  was  glad,  too,  an'  now  it  hurts  me  so  to  think  of 
it.     Can  you  no  comfort  me? 

Vavasour  [grudgingly,  but  not  touching  Catherine's  out- 
stretched hand].  Aye,  well,  I  could,  but,  Kats,  'twas  such  a 
terrible  thing  to  do! 

Catherine.  Yiss,  yiss,  ye'll  never  be  able  to  forgive  me,  I'm 
thinkin'.  An'  then  when  ye  came  in  from  the  lodge,  ye  spoke 
so  pleasantly  to  me  that  I  was  troubled.  An'  now  the  year 
through  it  has  grown  better  an'  better,  an'  I  could  think  of 
nothin'  but  lovin'  ye,  an'  wishing'  ye  to  live,  an'  knowin'  I 
was  the  cause  of  your  bein'  called.  Uch,  lad,  can  ye  for- 
give me? 

Vavasour  [slozuly].  Aye,  I  can,  none  of  us  Is  without  sin; 
but,  Catherine,  it  was  wrong,  aye,  aye,  'twas  a  wicked  thing 
for  a  woman  to  do. 

Catherine  [still  more  meekly].  An'  then  to-night,  lad,  I 
was  expectin'  ye  to  go,  knowin'  ye  couldn't  live  after  twelve. 


192  WELSH  HONEYMOON 

an'  ye  sittin'  there  so  innocent  an'  mournful.  An'  when  the 
time  came,  I  wanted  to  die  myself.     Uch! 

Vavasour  [sitting  down  beside  her  and  putting  an  arm 
about  her  as  he  speaks  in  a  superior  tone  of  voice].  No  matter, 
dearie,  now.  It  was  wrong  in  ye,  but  we're  still  here,  an'  it's 
been  a  sweet  year,  yiss,  better  nor  a  honeymoon,  an'  all  the 
years  after  we'll  make  better  nor  this.  There,  there,  Kats, 
let's  have  a  bit  of  a  wassail  to  celebrate  our  AUhallows'  honey- 
moon, shall  we? 

Catherine  [starting  to  fetch  a  bowl].  Yiss,  lad,  'twould 
be  fine,  but.  Vavasour,  can  ye  forgive  me,  think,  lad,  for  hopin', 
aye,  an'  prayin'  to  see  your  spirit  called,  just  wishin'  that  ye'd 
not  live  the  year  out? 

Vavasour  [with  condescension].  Kats,  I  can,  an'  I'm  not 
layin'  it  up  against  ye,  though  'twas  a  wicked  thing  for  ye  to 
do — for  anj'one  to  do.     Now,  darlin',  fetch  the  bowl. 

Catherine  [starting  for  the  bowl  again  but  turning  on 
him].  Vavasour,  how  does  it  happen  that  the  callin'  is  set  aside, 
an'  that  ye're  really  here?  Such  a  thing  has  not  been  in 
Beddgelert  in  the  memory  of  man. 

Vavasour  [with  dignity].  I'm  not  sayin'  how  it's  happened, 
Kats,  but  I'm  thinkin'  'tis  modern  times  whatever,  an'  things 
have  changed — aye,   indeed,  'tis  modern  times. 

Catherine  [sighing  contentedly].  Good!  'Tis  lucky  'tis 
modern  times  whatever! 


[the  curtain.] 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA* 

By 
JOHN  MILLINGTON  SYNGE 


*  Copyright,  1916,  by  L.  E.  Bassett.  Reprinted  by  special  arrange- 
ment with  John  W.  Luce  &  Company,  Boston.  Acting  rights  in  the 
hands  of  Samuel  French,  28  West  38  Street,  New  York. 


"  He  was  of  a  dark  type  of  Irishman,  though  not  black- 
haired.  Something  in  his  air  gave  one  the  fancy  that  his  face 
was  dark  from  gravity.  Gravity  filled  the  face  and  haunted 
it,  as  though  the  man  behind  were  forever  listening  to  life's 
case  before  passing  judgment.  .  .  .  When  someone  spoke  to 
him  he  answered  with  grave  Irish  courtesy.  When  the  talk 
became  general  he  was  silent.  .  .  .His  manner  was  that  of 
a  man  too  much  interested  in  the  life  about  him  to  wish  to  be 
more  than  a  spectator.  His  interest  was  in  life,  not  in  ideas." 
In  these  words,  John  Masefield  gives  his  first  impressions  of 
John  Millington  Synge,  whom  he  met  at  a  friend's  house,  in 
London,  in  January,   1903. 

Synge,  born  April  16,  1871,  at  Newton  Little,  near  Dublin, 
and  dying  in  Dublin,  March  24,  1909,  belongs  to  that  group 
of  "  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown  "  who  died  before  the 
prime  of  life  was  reached.  He  left  six  plays,  notable  the 
Riders  to  the  Sea  and  Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows,  that  are  among 
the  greatest  in  our  language.  He  was  delicate  from  the  be- 
ginning, and  after  some  education  in  private  schools  in  Dublin 
and  Bray,  left  school  when  about  fourteen  and  studied  with  a 
tutor.  In  1892  he  took  his  B.A.  degree  from  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  whose  rolls  contain  a  number  of  names  famous  in  Eng- 
lish literature.  While  at  college,  he  studied  music  at  the  Royal 
Irish  Academy  of  Music,  where  he  won  a  scholarship.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  make  music  his  career,  and  he  spent  portions 
of  the  next  four  years  in  Germany,  France,  and  Italy  studying 
music  and  traveling.  In  May,  1898,  he  first  went  to  the  Aran 
Islands,  later  to  be  the  scene  of  Riders  to  the  Sea.  There- 
after in  Paris  in  1899  he  met  Yeats,  who  advised  him  to  go 
back  to  the  Aran  Islands  to  renew  his  contact  with  the  simple 
folk  there.  For  the  next  three  years  he  divided  his  time  between 
Paris  and  Ireland.  It  was  in  1904  that  his  play.  Riders  to  the 
Sea,^  was  first  produced.  He  was  at  Dublin  that  same  year 
for  the  opening  of  the  Abbey  Theatre,  of  which  he  was  one  of 
the  advisers.     Whenever  the  Irish  Players  visited  England,  he 

'  For  a  list  of  Synge's  other  plays,  see  E.  A.  Boyd,  The  Contempo- 
rary Drama  of  Ireland,  Boston,  1917. 

19s 


196  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

traveled  with  them.     In   1909  came  the  operation  that  ended 
his  life. 

Synge's  book,  The  Aran  Islands,  which  is  a  record  of  his 
various  visits  to  these  three  islands  lying  about  thirty  miles  off 
the  coast  of  County  Galway,  is  full  of  material  that  throws 
light  on  the  setting  and  characterization  of  Riders  to  the  Sea. 
The  central  incident  in  this  play  was  suggested  to  Synge  while 
he  was  sojourning  on  Inishmaan,  the  middle  island  of  the  Aran 
group,  by  a  tale  that  he  heard  of  a  man  whose  body  had  been 
washed  up  on  a  distant  coast,  and  who  had  been  identified  as 
belonging  to  the  Islands,  because  of  his  characteristic  garments. 
When  on  Inishmaan,  Synge  himself  lived  in  just  such  a  cottage 
as  that  which  is  the  background  for  the  tragedy  of  Maurya's 
sons.  He  wrote  of  this  cottage,  "  The  kitchen  itself,  where  I 
will  spend  most  of  my  time,  is  full  of  beauty  and  distinction. 
The  red  dresses  of  the  women  who  cluster  round  the  fire  on 
their  stools  give  a  glow  of  almost  Eastern  richness,  and  the 
walls  have  been  toned  by  the  surf-smoke  to  a  soft  brown  that 
blends  with  the  gray  earth-color  of  the  floor.  Many  sorts  of 
fishing-tackle,  and  the  nets  and  oilskins  of  the  men,  are  hung  up 
on  the  walls  or  among  the  open  rafters."  And  the  following 
passage  fuom  his  Aran  Islands  is  an  eloquent  description  of  the 
atmosphere  there:  "  A  week  of  smoking  fog  has  passed  over  and 
given  me  a  strange  sense  of  exile  and  desolation.  I  walk  round 
the  island  nearly  every  day,  yet  I  can  see  nothing  anywhere 
but  a  mass  of  wet  rock,  a  strip  of  surf,  and  then  a  tumult  of 
waves. 

"  The  slaty  limestone  has  grown  black  with  the  water  that 
is  dripping  on  it,  and  wherever  I  turn  there  is  the  same  gray 
obsession  twining  and  wreathing  itself  among  the  narrow  fields, 
and  the  same  wail  from  the  wind  that  shrieks  and  whistles  in 
the  loose  rubble  of  the  walls." 

Mr.  Masefield,  in  his  recollections  of  Synge,  reports  also  the 
following  conversation  between  himself  and  the  Irish  play- 
wright: Synge  saying,  "  They  [the  islanders]  asked  me  to  fiddle 
to  them  so  that  they  might  dance,"  and  Mr.  Masefield  asking, 
"  Do  you  play,  then  ?  "  and  Synge  answering,  "  I  fiddle  a  little. 
I  try  to  learn  something  different  for  them  every  time.  The 
last  time  I  learned  to  do  conjuring  tricks.  They'd  get  tired  of 
me  if  I  didn't  bring  something  new.  I'm  thinking  of  learn- 
ing the  penny  whistle  before  I  go  again." 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  197 

A  later  visitor  ^  to  the  Aran  Islands,  Miss  B.  N.  Hedderman, 
a  district  nurse,  gives  further  evidences  of  the  simplicity  of 
those  people  from  whom  the  characters  of  Riders  to  the  Sea 
were  drawn.  She  tells  of  a  man  who  owned  a  house  with  two 
comfortable  rooms  in  it,  one  of  which  he  leveled  ruthlessly 
because  he  had  dreamed  that  it  hindered  the  passage  of  the 
"  good  people."  The  illustrations  in  her  little  book  showing 
cottage  interiors  and  peasant  costumes  will  be  found  useful  by 
groups  who  are  planning  to  produce  Riders  to  the  Sea.  But 
the  best  guide  to  the  costumes  and  social  life  of  the  West  of 
Ireland  is  J.  B.  Yeats.^ 

The  Drama  Calendar  of  December  13,  1920,  offers  the  fol- 
lowing suggestion  for  a  musical  setting  for  the  play:  "The 
attention  of  Little  Theatre  directors  is  called  to  a  musical  pre- 
lude to  Synge's  Riders  to  the  Sea,  arranged  by  Henry  F. 
Gilbert  from  the  Symphonic  Prologue,  which  was  played  at  the 
Worcester  Musical  Festival  this  fall.  This  original  arrange- 
ment of  the  material  is  intended  to  build  the  mood  which  the 
play  sustains,  and  is  simply  orchestrated  for  seven  instruments. 
Every  Little  Theatre  should  be  able  to  gather  such  an  orchestra. 
Here  is  an  opportunity  to  give  continuity  to  a  program  of  one- 
acts;  music  answers  a  question  which  is  one  of  the  hardest  the 
director  has  to  solve:  how  a  mood  which  is  to  be  created  and 
sustained  in  the  brief  space  of  twenty  minutes  shall  not  be  too 
fleeting." 

*  B.  N.  Hedderman,  Glimpses  of  My  Life  in  Aran,  Bristol,  1917. 

"  J.  B.  Yeats,  Life  in  the  West  of  Ireland,  Dublin  and  London, 
1912.  The  color  prints  and  line  drawings  in  this  book  are  very  beau- 
tiful. Cf.  also  J.  M.  Synge,  The  Aran  Islands.  With  drawings  by 
Jack  B.  Yeats,  Dublin  and  London,  1907. 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

First  performed  at  the  Molesworth  Hall,  Dublin, 
February  25,  igo4. 

CHARACTERS 

Maurya,  an  old  woman. 
Bartley,  her  son. 
Cathleen,  her  daughter. 
Nora,  a  younger  daughter. 
Men  and  Women. 

SCENE.— An  Island  off  the  West  of  Ireland. 

Cottage  kitchen,  with  nets,  oil-skins,  spinning  wheel,  some  new 
boards  standing  by  the  wall,  etc.  Cathleen,  a  girl  of 
about  twenty,  finishes  kneading  cake,  and  puts  it  down  in 
the  pot-oven  by  the  fire;  then  wipes  her  hands,  and  begins 
to  spin  at  the  wheel.  Nora,  a  young  girl,  puts  her  head 
in  at  the  door. 

Nora   [in  a  low  voice].     Where  is  she? 

Cathleen.  She's  lying  down,  God  help  her,  and  may  be 
sleeping,  if  she's  able.  [Nora  comes  in  softly,  and  takes  a 
bundle  from  under  her  shawl.] 

Cathleen  [spinning  the  wheel  rapidly].  What  is  it  you 
have  ? 

Nora.  The  young  priest  is  after  bringing  theni.  It's  a  shirt 
and  a  plain  stocking  were  got  off  a  drowned  man  in  Donegal. 
[Cathleen  stops  her  wheel  with  a  sudden  movement,  and 
leans  out  to  listen.] 

Nora.  We're  to  find  out  if  it's  Michael's  they  are,  some 
time  herself  will  be  down  looking  by  the  sea. 

iq8 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  199 

Cathleen.  How  would  they  be  Michael's,  Nora?  How 
would  he  go  the  length  of  that  way  to  the  far  north? 

Nora.  The  young  priest  says  he's  known  the  like  of  it. 
"  If  it's  Michael's  they  are,"  says  he,  "  you  can  tell  herself 
he's  got  a  clean  burial  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  if  they're  not 
his,  let  no  one  say  a  word  about  them,  for  she'll  be  getting 
her  death,"  says  he,  "with  crying  and  lamenting."  [The  door 
which  Nora  half  closed  is  blown  open  by  a  gust  of  wind.] 

Cathleen  [looking  out  anxiously].  Did  you  ask  him  would 
he  stop  Bartley  going  this  day  with  the  horses  to  the  Galway 
fair? 

Nora.  "  I  won't  stop  him,"  says  he,  "  but  let  you  not  be 
afraid.  Herself  does  be  saying  prayers  half  through  the  night, 
and  the  Almighty  God  won't  leave  her  destitute,"  says  he, 
*■  with  no  son  living." 

Cathleen.     Is  the  sea  bad  by  the  white  rocks,  Nora? 

Nora.  Middling  bad,  God  help  us.  There's  a  great  roar- 
ing in  the  west,  and  it's  worse  it'll  be  getting  when  the  tide's 
turned  to  the  wind.  [She  goes  over  to  the  table  with  the 
bundle.]     Shall  I  open  it  now? 

Cathleen.  Maybe  she'd  wake  up  on  us,  and  come  in  be- 
fore we'd  done.  [Coming  to  the  table.]  It's  a  long  time  we'll 
be,  and  the  two  of  us  crying. 

Nora  [goes  to  the  inner  door  and  listens].  She's  moving 
about  on  the  bed.     She'll  be  coming  in  a  minute. 

Cathleen.  Give  me  the  ladder,  and  I'll  put  them  up  in 
the  turf-loft,  the  way  she  won't  know  of  them  at  all,  and 
maybe  when  the  tide  turns  she'll  be  going  down  to  see  would 
he  be  floating  from  the  east.  [They  put  the  ladder  against  the 
gable  of  the  chimney;  Cathleen  goes  up  a  few  steps  and 
hides  the  bundle  in  the  turf-loft.  Maurya  comes  from  the 
inner  room.] 

Maurya  [looking  up  at  Cathleen  and  speaking  queru- 
lously.]   Isn't  it  turf  enough  you  have  for  this  day  and  evening? 

Cathleen.  There's  a  cake  baking  at  the  fire  for  a  short 
space  [throwing  down  the  turf]  and  Bartley  will  want  it  when 
the  tide  turns  if  he  goes  to  Connemara.  [Nora  picks  up  the 
turf  and  puts  it  round  the  pot-oven.] 

Maurya  [sitting  down  on  a  stool  at  the  fire].  He  won't 
go  this  day  with  the  wind  rising  from  the  south  and  west.  He 
won't  go  this  day,  for  the  young  priest  will  stop  him  surely. 


20O  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

Nora.  He'll  not  stop  him,  mother,  and  I  heard  Eamon 
Simon  and  Stephen  Pheety  and  Colum  Shawn  saying  he 
would  go. 

Maurya.    Where  is  he  itself? 

Nora.  He  went  down  to  see  would  there  be  another  boat 
sailing  in  the  week,  and  I'm  thinking  it  won't  be  long  till  he's 
here  now,  for  the  tide's  turning  at  the  green  head,  and  the 
hooker's  tacking  from  the  east. 

Cathleen.     I  hear  someone  passing  the  big  stones. 

Nora  [looking  out].    He's  coming  now,  and  he  in  a  hurry. 

Bartley  {comes  in  and  looks  round  the  room.  Speaking 
sadly  and  quietly].  Where  is  the  bit  of  new  rope,  Cathleen, 
was  bought  in  Connemara? 

Cathleen  [coming  down].  Give  it  to  him,  Nora;  it's  on 
a  nail  by  the  white  boards.  I  hung  it  up  this  morning,  for 
the  pig  with  the  black  feet  was  eating  it. 

Nora  [giving  him  a  rope].    Is  that  it,  Bartley? 

Maurya.  You'd  do  right  to  leave  that  rope,  Bartley,  hang- 
ing by  the  boards.  [Bartley  takes  the  rope.]  It  will  be 
wanting  in  this  place,  I'm  telling  you,  if  Michael  is  washed  up 
to-morrow  morning,  or  the  next  morning,  or  any  morning  in 
the  week,  for  it's  a  deep  grave  we'll  make  him  by  the  grace 
of  God. 

Bartley  [beginning  to  work  with  the  rope].  I've  no  halter 
the  way  I  can  ride  down  on  the  mare,  and  I  must  go  now 
quickly.  This  is  the  one  boat  going  for  two  weeks  or  beyond 
it,  and  the  fair  will  be  a  good  fair  for  horses  I  heard  them 
saying  below. 

Maurya.  It's  a  hard  thing  they'll  be  saying  below  if  the 
body  is  washed  up  and  there's  no  man  in  it  to  make  the  coffin, 
and  I  after  giving  a  big  price  for  the  finest  white  boards  you'd 
find  in  Connemara.     [She  looks  round  at  the  boards.] 

Bartley.  How  would  it  be  washed  up,  and  we  after  look- 
ing each  day  for  nine  days,  and  a  strong  wind  blowing  a  while 
back  from  the  west  and  south? 

Maurya.  If  it  wasn't  found  itself,  that  wind  is  raising  the 
sea,  and  there  was  a  star  up  against  the  moon,  and  it  rising  in 
the  night.  If  it  was  a  hundred  horses,  or  a  thousand  horses 
you  had  itself,  what  is  the  price  of  a  thousand  horses  against 
a  son  where  there  is  one  son  only? 

Bartley  [working  at  the  halter,  to  Cathleen].     Let  you 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  201 

go  down  each  day,  and  see  the  sheep  aren't  jumping  in  on  the 
rye,  and  if  the  jobber  comes  you  can  sell  the  pig  with  the  black 
feet  if  there  is  a  good  price  going. 

Maurya.    How  would  the  like  of  her  get  a  good  price  for 

a  pig? 

Bartley  [to  Cathleen].  If  the  west  wind  holds  with  the 
last  bit  of  the  moon  let  you  and  Nora  get  up  weed  enough  for 
another  cock  for  the  kelp.  It's  hard  set  we'll  be  from  this  day 
with  no  one  in  it  but  one  man  to  work. 

Maurya.  It's  hard  set  we'll  be  surely  the  day  you're 
drownd'd  with  the  rest.  What  way  will  I  live  and  the  girls 
with  me,  and  I  an  old  woman  looking  for  the  grave?  [Hart- 
ley lays  down  the  halter,  takes  off  his  old  coat,  and  puts  on  a 
newer  one  of  the  same  flannel.] 

Bartley  [to  Nora].    Is  she  coming  to  the  pier? 

Nora  [looking  out].  She's  passing  the  green  head  and  let- 
ting fall  her  sails. 

Bartley  [getting  his  purse  and  tobacco].  I'll  have  half  an 
hour  to  go  down,  and  you'll  see  me  coming  again  in  two  days, 
or  in  three  days,  or  maybe  in  four  days  if  the  wind  is  bad. 

Maurya  [turning  round  to  the  fire,  and  putting  her  shawl 
over  her  head].  Isn't  it  a  hard  and  cruel  man  won't  hear  a 
word  from  an  old  woman,  and  she  holding  him  from  the  sea? 

Cathleen.  It's  the  life  of  a  young  man  to  be  going  on  the 
sea,  and  who  would  listen  to  an  old  woman  with  one  thing 
and  she  saying  it  over? 

Bartley  [taking  the  halter].  I  must  go  now  quickly.  I'll 
ride  down  on  the  red  mare,  and  the  gray  pony '11  run  behind 
me.   .    .    .   The  blessing  of  God  on  you.     [He  goes  out.] 

Maurya  [crying  out  as  he  is  in  the  door].  He's  gone  now, 
God  spare  us,  and  we'll  not  see  him  again.  He's  gone  now, 
and  when  the  black  night  is  falling  I'll  have  no  son  left  me 
in  the  world. 

Cathleen.  Why  wouldn't  you  give  him  your  blessing  and 
he  looking  round  in  the  door?  Isn't  it  sorrow  enough  is  on 
everyone  in  this  house  without  your  sending  him  out  with 
an  unlucky  word  behind  him,  and  a  hard  word  in  his  ear? 
[Maurya  takes  up  the  tongs  and  begins  raking  the  fire  aim- 
lessly without  looking  round.] 

Nora  [turning  towards  her].  You're  taking  away  the  turf 
from  the  cake. 


202  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

Cathleen  [crying  out].  The  Son  of  God  forgive  us,  Nora, 
we're  after  forgetting  his  bit  of  bread.      [She  comes  over  to 

the  fire.] 

Nora.  And  it's  destroyed  he'll  be  going  till  dark  night, 
and  he  after  eating  nothing  since  the  sun  went  up. 

Cathleen  [turning  the  cake  out  of  the  oven].  It's  destroyed 
he'll  be,  surely.  There's  no  sense  left  on  any  person  in  a  house 
where  an  old  woman  will  be  talking  forever.  [Maurya  sways 
herself  on  her  stool.] 

Cathleen  [cutting  off  some  of  the  bread  and  rolling  it  in 
a  cloth;  to  Maurya].  Let  you  go  down  now  to  the  spring 
well  and  give  him  this  and  he  passing.  You'll  see  him  then 
and  the  dark  word  will  be  broken,  and  you  can  say  "  God 
speed  you,"  the  way  he'll  be  easy  in  his  mind. 

Maurya  [taking  the  bread].  Will  I  be  in  it  as  soon  as 
himself? 

Cathleen.     If  you  go  now  quickly. 

Maurya  [standing  up  unsteadily].  It's  hard  set  I  am  to 
walk. 

Cathleen   [looking  at  her  anxiously].    Give  her  the  stick, 
Nora,  or  maybe  she'll  slip  on  the  big  stones. 
Nora.    What  stick? 

Cathleen.  The  stick  Michael  brought  from  Connemara. 
Maurya  [taking  a  stick  Nora  gives  her].  In  the  big 
world  the  old  people  do  be  leaving  things  after  them  for  their 
sons  and  children,  but  in  this  place  it  is  the  young  men  do  be 
leaving  things  behind  for  them  that  do  be  old.  [She  goes  out 
slowly.     Nora  goes  over  to  the  ladder.] 

Cathleen.  Wait,  Nora,  maybe  she'd  turn  back  quickly. 
She's  that  sorry,  God  help  her,  you  wouldn't  know  the  thing 
she'd  do. 

Nora.     Is  she  gone  round  by  the  bush? 
Cathleen  [/oo^m^  oM/].    She's  gone  now.    Throw  it  down 
quickly,  for  the  Lord  knows  when  she'll  be  out  of  it  again. 

Nora  [getting  the  bundle  from  the  loft].  ^  The  young  priest 
said  he'd  be  passing  to-morrow,  and  we  might  go  down  and 
speak  to  him  below  if  it's  Michael's  they  are  surely. 

Cathleen  [taking  the  bundle].  Did  he  say  what  way  they 
were  found? 

Nora  [corning  down].  "There  were  two  men,"  says  he, 
"  and  they  rowing  round  with  poteen  before  the  cocks  crowed, 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  203 

and  the  oar  of  one  of  them  caught  the  body,  and  they  passing 
the  black  cliffs  of  the  north." 

Cathleen  [tryinff  to  open  the  bundle].  Give  me  a  knife, 
Nora,  the  string's  perished  with  the  salt  water,  and  there's  a 
black  knot  on  it  you  wouldn't  loosen  in  a  week. 

Nora  [giving  her  a  knife],  I've  heard  tell  it  was  a  long  way 
to  Donegal. 

Cathleen  [cutting  the  string].  It  is  surely.  There  was 
a  man  in  here  a  while  ago — the  man  sold  us  that  knife — and 
he  said  if  you  set  off  walking  from  the  rocks  beyond,  it  would 
be  seven  days  you'd  be  in  Donegal. 

Nora.  And  what  time  would  a  man  take,  and  he  floating? 
[Cathleen  opens  the  bundle  and  takes  out  a  bit  of  a  stocking. 
They  look  at  them  eagerly.] 

Cathleen  {in  a  low  voice].  The  Lord  spare  us,  Nora! 
isn't  it  a  queer  hard  thing  to  say  if  it's  his  they  are  surely? 

Nora.  I'll  get  his  shirt  off  the  hook  the  way  we  can  put 
the  one  flannel  on  the  other.  [She  looks  through  some  clothes 
hanging  in  the  corner.]  It's  not  with  them,  Cathleen,  and 
where  will  it  be? 

Cathleen.  I'm  thinking  Hartley  put  it  on  him  in  the  morn- 
ing, for  his  own  shirt  was  heavy  with  the  salt  in  it.  [Pointing 
to  the  corner.]  There's  a  bit  of  a  sleeve  was  of  the  same  stuff. 
Give  me  that  and  it  will  do.  [Nora  brings  it  to  her  and  they 
compare  the  flannel.] 

Cathleen.  It's  the  same  stuff,  Nora;  but  if  it  is  itself 
aren't  there  great  rolls  of  it  in  the  shops  of  Galway,  and  isn't 
it  many  another  man  may  have  a  shirt  of  it  as  well  as  Michael 
himself? 

Nora  [who  has  taken  up  the  stocking  and  counted  the 
stitches,  crying  out].  It's  Michael,  Cathleen,  it's  Michael; 
God  spare  his  soul,  and  what  will  herself  say  when  she  hears 
this  story,  and  Bartley  on  the  sea? 

Cathleen  [taking  the  stocking].    It's  a  plain  stocking. 

Nora.  It's  the  second  one  of  the  third  pair  I  knitted,  and 
I  put  up  three  score  stitches,  and  I  dropped  four  of  them. 

Cathleen  [counts  the  stitches].  It's  that  number  is  in  it. 
[Crying  out.]  Ah,  Nora,  isn't  it  a  bitter  thing  to  think  of  him 
floating  that  way  to  the  far  north,  and  no  one  to  keen  him  but 
the  black  hags  that  do  be  flying  on  the  sea? 

Nora   [swinging  herself  round,  and  throwing  out  her  arms 


204  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

on  the  clothes].  And  isn't  it  a  pitiful  thing  when  there  Is  noth- 
ing left  of  a  man  who  was  a  great  rower  and  fisher,  but  a  bit 
of  an  old  shirt  and  a  plain  stocking? 

Cathleen  [after  an  instant].  Tell  me  is  herself  coming, 
Nora?     I  hear  a  little  sound  on  the  path. 

Nora  [looking  out].  She  is,  Cathleen.  She's  coming  up  to 
the  door. 

Cathleen.  Put  these  things  away  before  she'll  come  in. 
Maybe  it's  easier  she'll  be  after  giving  her  blessing  to  Bartley, 
and  we  won't  let  on  we've  heard  anything  the  time  he's  on 
the  sea. 

Nora  [helping  Cathleen  to  close  the  bundle].  We'll  put 
them  here  in  the  corner.  [They  put  them  into  a  hole  in  the 
chimney  corner.    Cathleen  goes  back  to  the  spinning-wheel.] 

Nora.    Will  she  see  it  was  crying  I  was? 

Cathleen.  Keep  your  back  to  the  door  the  way  the  light'U 
not  be  on  you.  [Nora  sits  down  at  the  chimney  corner,  with 
her  back  to  the  door.  Maurya  comes  in  very  slowly,  without 
looking  at  the  girls,  and  goes  over  to  her  stool  at  the  other  side 
of  the  fire.  The  cloth  with  the  bread  is  still  in  her  hand.  The 
girls  look  at  each  other,  and  Nora  points  to  the  bundle  of 
bread.  ] 

Cathleen  [after  spinning  for  a  moment].  You  didn't  give 
him  his  bit  of  bread?  [Maurya  begins  to  keen  softly,  without 
turning  round.] 

Cathleen.  Did  you  see  him  riding  down?  [Maurya  goes 
on  keening.] 

Cathleen  [a  little  impatiently].  God  forgive  you;  isn't  it 
a  better  thing  to  raise  your  voice  and  tell  what  you  seen,  than 
to  be  making  lamentation  for  a  thing  that's  done?  Did  you 
see  Bartley,  I'm  saying  to  you. 

Maurya  [with  a  weak  voice].  My  heart's  broken  from  this 
day. 

Cathleen  [as  before].    Did  you  see  Bartley? 

Maurya.    I  seen  the  fearfulest  thing. 

Cathleen  [leaves  her  wheel  and  looks  out].  God  forgive 
you;  he's  riding  the  mare  now  over  the  green  head,  and  the 
gray  pony  behind  him. 

Maurya  [starts,  so  that  her  shawl  falls  back  from  her  head 
and  shows  her  white  tossed  hair.  With  a  frightened  voice]. 
The  gray  pony  behind  him. 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  205 

Cathleen  [coming  to  the  fire].    What  is  it  ails  you,  at  all? 

Maurya  [speaking  very  slowly].  I've  seen  the  fearfulest 
thing  any  person  has  seen,  since  the  day  Bride  Dara  seen  the 
dead  man  with  the  child  in  his  arms. 

Cathleen  and  Nora.  Uah.  [They  crouch  down  in  front 
of  the  old  woman  at  the  fire.] 

Nora.    Tell  us  what  it  is  you  seen. 

Maurya.  I  went  down  to  the  spring  well,  and  I  stood 
there  saying  a  prayer  to  myself.  Then  Hartley  came  along,  and 
he  riding  on  the  red  mare  with  the  gray  pony  behind  him. 
[She  puts  up  her  hands,  as  if  to  hide  something  from  her  eyes.] 
The  Son  of  God  spare  us,  Nora! 

Cathleen.    What  is  it  you  seen? 

Maurya.    I  seen  Michael  himself. 

Cathleen  [speaking  softly].  You  did  not,  mother;  it 
wasn't  Michael  you  seen,  for  his  body  is  after  being  found  in 
the  far  north,  and  he's  got  a  clean  burial  by  the  grace  of  God. 

Maurya  [a  little  defiantly],  I'm  after  seeing  him  this  day, 
and  he  riding  and  galloping.  Bartley  came  first  on  the  red 
mare ;  and  I  tried  to  say  "  God  speed  you,"  but  something 
choked  the  words  in  my  throat.  He  went  by  quickly;  and 
"  The  blessing  of  God  on  you,"  says  he,  and  I  could  say  noth- 
ing. I  looked  up  then,  and  I  crying,  at  the  gray  pony,  and 
there  was  Michael  upon  it — with  fine  clothes  on  him,  and  new 
shoes  on  his  feet. 

Cathleen  [begins  to  keen].  It's  destroyed  we  are  from 
this  day.     It's  destroyed,  surely. 

Nora.  Didn't  the  young  priest  say  the  Almighty  God 
wouldn't  leave  her  destitute  with  no  son  living? 

Maurya  [in  a  low  voice,  but  clearly].  It's  little  the  like 
of  him  knows  of  the  sea.  .  .  .  Bartley  will  be  lost  now,  and 
let  you  call  in  Eamon  and  make  me  a  good  coffin  out  of  the 
white  boards,  for  I  won't  live  after  them.  I've  had  a  husband, 
and  a  husband's  father,  and  six  sons  in  this  house — six  fine 
men,  though  it  was  a  hard  birth  I  had  with  every  one  of  them 
and  they  coming  to  the  world — and  some  of  them  were  found 
and  some  of  them  were  not  found,  but  they're  gone  now  the 
lot  of  them.  .  .  .  There  were  Stephen,  and  Shawn,  were  lost 
in  the  great  wind,  and  found  after  in  the  Bay  of  Gregory  of 
the  Golden  Mouth,  and  carried  up  the  two  of  them  on  the 
one  plank,  and  in  by  that  door.     [She  pauses  for  a  moment,  the 


2o6  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

girls  start  as  if  they  heard  something  through  the  door  that  is 
half  open  behind  them.] 

Nora  [in  a  whisper].     Did  you  hear  that,  Cathleen?     Did 
you  hear  a  noise  in  the  north-east? 

Cathleen    [in  a  whisper].     There's  someone  after  crying 
out  by  the  seashore. 

Maurya  [continues  without  hearing  anything].  There  was 
Sheamus  and  his  father,  and  his  own  father  again,  were  lost  in 
a  dark  night,  and  not  a  stick  or  sign  was  seen  of  them  when 
the  sun  went  up.  There  was  Patch  after  was  drowned  out  of 
a  curagh  that  turned  over.  I  was  sitting  here  with  Bartley, 
and  he  a  baby,  lying  on  my  two  knees,  and  I  seen  two  women, 
and  three  women,  and  four  women  coming  in,  and  they  cross- 
ing themselves,  and  not  saying  a  word.  I  looked  out  then, 
and  there  were  men  coming  after  them,  and  they  holding  a 
thing  in  the  half  of  a  red  sail,  and  water  dripping  out  of  it — 
it  was  a  dry  day,  Nora — and  leaving  a  track  to  the  door. 
[She  pauses  again  with  her  hand  stretched  out  towards  the  door. 
It  opens  softly  and  old  women  begin  to  come  in,  crossing  them- 
selves on  the  threshold,  and  kneeling  down  in  front  of  the  stage 
with  red  petticoats  over  their  heads.] 

Maurya  [half  in  a  dream,  to  Cathleen].  Is  it  Patch,  or 
Michael,  or  what  is  it  at  all? 

Cathleen.  Michael  is  after  being  found  in  the  far  north, 
and  when  he  is  found  there  how  could  he  be  here  in  this  place? 

Maurya.  There  does  be  a  power  of  young  men  floating 
round  in  the  sea,  and  what  way  would  they  know  if  it  was 
Michael  they  had,  or  another  man  like  him,  for  when  a  man 
is  nine  days  in  the  sea,  and  the  wind  blowing,  it's  hard  set  his 
own  mother  would  be  to  say  what  man  was  it. 

Cathleen.  It's  Michael,  God  spare  him,  for  they're  after 
sending  us  a  bit  of  his  clothes  from  the  far  north,  [She  reaches 
out  and  hands  Maurya  the  clothes  that  belonged  to  Michael. 
Maurya  stands  up  slowly,  and  takes  them  in  her  hands. 
Nora  looks  out.] 

Nora.  They're  carrying  a  thing  among  them  and  there's 
water  dripping  out  of  it  and  leaving  a  track  by  the  big  stones. 

Cathleen  [in  a  whisper  to  the  women  who  have  come  in]. 
Is  it  Bartley  it  is? 

One  of  the  Women.  It  is  surely,  God  rest  his  soul. 
[Two  younger  women  come  in  and  pull  out  the  table.     Then 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  207^ 

men  carry  in  the  body  of  Bartley,  laid  on  a  plank,  with  a  bit 
of  a  sail  over  it,  and  lay  it  on  the  table. ^ 

Cathleen  [to  the  women,  as  they  are  doing  so].  What 
way  was  he  drowned? 

One  of  the  Women.  The  gray  pony  knocked  him  into  the 
sea,  and  he  was  washed  out  where  there  is  a  great  surf  on  the 
white  rocks.  [Maurya  has  gone  over  and  knelt  dozen  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  The  women  are  keening  softly  and  swaying 
themselves  with  a  slow  movement.  Cathleen  and  Nora  kneel 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table.     The  men  kneel  near  the  door.] 

Maurya  [raising  her  head  and  speaking  as  if  she  did  not 
see  the  people  around  her].  They're  all  gone  now,  and  there 
isn't  anything  more  the  sea  can  do  to  me.  .  .  .  I'll  have  no 
call  now  to  be  up  crying  and  praying  when  the  wind  breaks 
from  the  south,  and  you  can  hear  the  surf  is  in  the  east,  and 
the  surf  is  in  the  west,  making  a  great  stir  with  the  two  noises, 
and  they  hitting  one  on  the  other.  I'll  have  no  call  now  to  be 
going  down  and  getting  Holy  Water  in  the  dark  nights  after 
Samhain,  and  I  won't  care  what  way  the  sea  is  when  the  other 
women  will  be  keening.  [To  Nora.]  Give  me  the  Holy 
Water,  Nora,  there's  a  small  sup  still  on  the  dresser.  [Nora 
gives  it  to  her.] 

Maurya  [drops  Michael's  clothes  across  Hartley's  feet, 
and  sprinkles  the  Holy  Water  over  him].  It  isn't  that  I 
haven't  prayed  for  you,  Bartley,  to  the  Almighty  God.  It  isn't 
that  I  haven't  said  prayers  in  the  dark  night  till  you  wouldn't 
know  what  Fid  be  saying;  but  it's  a  great  rest  I'll  have  now, 
and  it's  time  surely.  It's  a  great  rest  I'll  have  now,  and  great 
sleeping  in  the  long  nights  after  Samhain,  if  it's  only  a  bit  of 
wet  flour  we  do  have  to  eat,  and  maybe  a  fish  that  would  be 
stinking.  [She  kneels  down  again,  crossing  herself,  and  saying 
prayers  under  her  breath.] 

Cathleen  [to  an  old  man].  Maybe  yourself  and  Eamon 
would  make  a  coffin  when  the  sun  rises.  We  have  fine  white 
boards  herself  bought,  God  help  her,  thinking  Michael  would 
be  found,  and  I  have  a  new  cake  you  can  eat  while  you'll  be 
working. 

The  Old  Man  [looking  at  the  boards].  Are  there  nails 
with  them? 

Cathleen.  There  are  not,  Colum;  we  didn't  think  of  the 
>nails. 


2o8  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

Another  Man.  It's  a  great  wonder  she  wouldn't  think  of 
the  nails,  and  all  the  coffins  she's  seen  made  already. 

Cathleen.  It's  getting  old  she  is,  and  broken.  [Maurya 
stands  up  again  very  slowly  and  spreads  out  the  pieces  of 
Michael's  clothes  beside  the  body,  sprinkling  them  luith  the 
last  of  the  Holy  Heater.] 

Nora  [in  a  whisper  to  Cathleen].  She's  quiet  now  and 
easy;  but  the  day  Michael  was  drowned  you  could  hear  her 
crying  out  from  this  to  the  spring  well.  It's  fonder  she  was 
of  Michael,  and  would  anyone  have  thought  that? 

Cathleen  [slowly  and  clearly].  An  old  woman  will  be 
soon  tired  with  anything  she  will  do,  and  isn't  it  nine  days  her- 
self is  after  crying  and  keening,  and  making  great  sorrow  in 
the  house? 

Maurya  [puts  the  empty  cup  mouth  downwards  on  the 
table,  and  lays  her  hands  together  on  Bartley's  feet].  They're 
all  together  this  time,  and  the  end  is  come.  May  the  Almighty 
God  have  mercy  on  Bartley's  soul,  and  on  Michael's  soul,  and 
on  the  souls  of  Sheamus  and  Patch,  and  Stephen  and  Shawn 
[bending  her  head]  ;  and  may  He  have  mercy  on  my  soul, 
Nora,  and  on  the  soul  of  everyone  is  left  living  in  the  world. 
[She  pauses,  and  the  keen  rises  a  little  more  loudly  from  the 
women,  then  sinks  away.] 

Maurya  [continuing].  Michael  has  a  clean  burial  in  the 
far  north,  by  the  grace  of  the  Almighty  God.  Bartley  will 
have  a  fine  coffin  out  of  the  white  boards,  and  a  deep  grave 
surely.  What  more  can  we  want  than  that?  No  man  at  all 
can  be  living  forever,  and  we  must  be  satisfied.  [She  kneels 
down  again  and  the  curtain  falls  slowly.] 


A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN  * 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

By 
LORD  DUNSANY 


*  Copyright,  1916,  by  The  Sunwise  Turn,  Inc.  All  rights  reserved. 
The  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  on  this  play  are  strictly 
reserved  by  the  author.  Applications  for  permission  to  produce  the 
play  should  be  made  to  The  Neighborhood  Playhouse,  466  Grand 
Street,  New  York. 

Any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights  will  be  punished  bv  the 
penalties  imposed  under  the  United  States  Revised  Statutes,  Title  60, 
Chapter  3. 


Edward  John  Moreton  Drax  Plunkett,  eighteenth  baron 
Dunsany,  was  born  in  1878,  a  lord  of  the  British  Empire,  heir 
to  an  ancient  barony,  created  by  Henry  VI  in  the  middle  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  He  went  from  Eton  to  Sandhurst,  the 
English  military  college,  held  a  lieutenancy  in  a  famous  regi- 
ment, the  Coldstream  Guards,  saw  active  service  in  the  South 
African  War  and  served  in  the  Great  War  as  an  officer  in  the 
Royal  Inniskilling  Fusiliers.  He  turned  aside  from  his  career 
as  a  soldier  in  1906  to  stand  for  West  Wiltshire  as  the  Con- 
servative candidate,  but  he  was  defeated.  He  writes  enthusi- 
astically always  of  his  interest  in  sport;  he  has  gone  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  to  shoot  big  game.  His  first  book,  The  Gods  of 
Pegana,  was  published  in  1905.  He  has  since  written  sketches, 
fantastic  tales,  and  plays,^  and  latterly  introductions  to  the 
poems  of  Francis  Ledwidge,  the  Irish  peasant  poet,  who  fell  in 
battle  in  19 17.  Dunsany 's  early  plays  were  put  on  at  the 
Abbey  Theatre  where  Yeats  produced  The  Glittering  Gate  in 
1909. 

The  initial  American  productions  were  also  made  in  Little 
Theatres,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Stage  Society  of  Phila- 
delphia and  at  The  Neighborhood  Playhouse  in  New  York, 
where  the  first  performance  on  any  stage  of  A  Night  at  an  Inn 
was  given  on  April  22,  19 16.  It  was  an  immediate  suc- 
cess and  aroused  great  general  interest  in  Dunsany 's  other 
plays.  It  was  remarked  at  the  time  that  its  scene  on  an  Eng- 
lish moor  was  far  from  "  his  own  Oriental  Never  Never 
Land,"  and  that  it  recalled  in  its  substance  The  Moonstone  by 
Wilkie  Collins  and  The  Mystery  of  Cloomber  by  A.  Conani 
Doyle.  Dunsany,  unlike  the  other  playwrights  associated  witb 
the  Irish  National  Theatre,  has  borrowed  the  glamour  of  the 
Orient  rather  than  that  of  Celtic  lore,  to  heighten  his  dramatic 
effects.  There  is,  in  fact,  much  that  is  Biblical  in  his  mood 
and  in  his  diction. 

When,  at  a  later  date,  Lord  Dunsany  saw  the  production  of 

^  For  bibliography  see  E.  A.  Boyd,  The  Contemporary  Drama  of 
Ireland,  Boston,  1917. 

SIX 


212  A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN 

A  Night  at  an  Inn  at  The  Neighborhood  Playhouse,  the  effect 
of  the  play  "  exceeded  his  own  expectations,  and  he  was  sur- 
prised to  note  the  thrill  which  it  communicated  to  his  audience. 
*  It's  a  very  simple  thing,'  he  said, — '  merely  a  story  of  some 
sailors  who  have  stolen  something  and  know  that  they  are 
followed.  Possibly  it  is  effective  because  nearly  everybody,  at 
some  time  or  other,  has  done  something  he  was  sorry  for,  has 
been  afraid  of  retribution,  and  has  felt  the  hot  breath  of  a  pur- 
suing vengeance  on  the  back  of  his  neck.  .  .  .  A  Night  at  an 
Inn  was  written  between  tea  and  dinner  in  a  single  sitting. 
That  was  very  easy.'  "  ^ 

A  Night  at  an  Inn  is  one  of  Dunsany's  contributions  to  the 
revival  of  romance  in  our  generation.  In  an  article  published 
ten  years  ago,  called  Romance  and  the  Modern  Stage,  he  wrote: 
"  Romance  is  so  inseparable  from  life  that  all  we  need,  to 
obtain  romantic  drama,  is  for  the  dramatist  to  find  any  age  or 
any  country  where  life  is  not  too  thickly  veiled  and  cloaked 
with  puzzles  and  conventions,  in  fact  to  find  a  people  that  is 
not  in  the  agonies  of  self-consciousness.  For  myself,  I  think 
it  is  simpler  to  imagine  such  a  people,  as  it  saves  the  trouble 
of  reading  to  find  a  romantic  age,  or  the  trouble  of  making  a 
journey  to  lands  where  there  is  no  press.  .  .  .  The  kind  of 
drama  that  we  most  need  to-day  seems  to  me  to  be  the  kind 
that  will  build  new  worlds  for  the  fancy;  for  the  spirit,  as 
much  as  the  body,  needs  sometimes  a  change  of  scene." 

*  Clayton  Hamilton,  Seen  on  the  Stage,  New  York,  1920,  p.  238; 
p.  239. 


A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN 

CHARACTERS 

A.  E.  ScOTT-FoRTESQUE  (The  Toff),  a  dilapidated  gentleman. 

William  Jones  (Bill)     "^ 

Albert  Thomas  > merchant  sailors. 

Jacob  Smith   (Sniggers)  J 

First  Priest  of  Klesh. 

Second  Priest  of  Klesh. 

Third  Priest  of  Klesh. 

Klesh.  ^ 

The  curtain  rises  on  a  room  in  an  inn.  Sniggers  and  Bill 
are  talking,  The  Toff  is  reading  a  paper.  Albert  sits  a 
little  apart. 

Sniggers.    What's  his  idea,  I  wonder? 

Bill.     I  don't  know. 

Sniggers.    And  how  much  longer  will  he  keep  us  here? 

Bill.    We've  been  here  three  days. 

Sniggers.    And  'aven't  seen  a  soul. 

Bill.    And  a  pretty  penny  it  cost  us  when  he  rented  the  pub. 

Sniggers.    'Ow  long  did  'e  rent  the  pub  for? 

Bill.    You  never  know  with  him. 

Sniggers.    It's  lonely  enough. 

Bill.  'Ow  long  did  you  rent  the  pub  for.  Toffy?  [The 
Toff  continues  to  read  a  sporting  paper;  he  takes  no  notice  of 
what  is  said.] 

Sniggers.    'E's  such  a  toff.  ' 

Bill.    Yet  'e's  clever,  no  mistake. 

Sniggers.  Those  clever  ones  are  the  beggars  to  make  a 
muddle.  Their  plans  are  clever  enough,  but  they  don't  work, 
and  then  they  make  a  mess  of  things  much  worse  than  you 
or  me. 

Bill.    Ah ! 

Sniggers.    I  don't  like  this  place. 

213 


214  A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN 

Bill.    Why  not? 

Sniggers.    I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it. 

Bill.  He's  keeping  us  here  because  here  those  niggers  can't 
find  us.  The  three  heathen  priests  what  was  looking  for  us  so. 
But  we  want  to  go  and  sell  our  ruby  soon. 

Albert.    There's  no  sense  in  it. 

Bill.    Why  not,  Albert? 

Albert.    Because  I  gave  those  black  devils  the  slip  in  Hull. 

Bill.    You  give  'em  the  slip,  Albert? 

Albert.  The  slip,  all  three  of  them.  The  fellows  with  the 
gold  spots  on  their  foreheads.  I  had  the  ruby  then  and  I  give 
them  the  slip  in  Hull. 

Bill.     How  did  you  do  It,  Albert? 

Albert.    I  had  the  ruby  and  they  were  following  me.   .    .    . 

Bill.  Who  told  them  you  had  the  ruby?  You  didn't 
show  it. 

Albert.     No.   .    .    .   But  they  kind  of  know. 

Sniggers.    They  kind  of  know,  Albert? 

Albert.  Yes,  they  know  if  you've  got  it.  Well,  they  sort 
of  mouched  after  me,  and  I  tells  a  policeman  and  he  says,  O, 
they  were  only  three  poor  niggers  and  they  wouldn't  hurt  me. 
Ugh!  When  I  thought  of  what  they  did  in  Malta  to  poor 
old  Jim. 

Bill.    Yes,  and  to  George  in  Bombay  before  we  started. 

Sniggers.    Ugh ! 

Bill.    Why  didn't  you  give  'em  in  charge? 

Albert.    What  about  the  ruby,  Bill? 

Bill.    Ah ! 

Albert.  Well,  I  did  better  than  that.  I  walks  up  and 
■down  through  Hull.  I  walks  slow  enough.  And  then  I  turns 
a  corner  and  I  runs.  I  never  sees  a  corner  but  I  turns  it.  But 
sometimes  I  let  a  corner  pass  just  to  fool  them.  I  twists  about 
like  a  hare.     Then  I  sits  down  and  waits.     No  priests. 

Sniggers.    What? 

Albert.  No  heathen  black  devils  with  gold  spots  on  their 
face.    I  give  'em  the  slip. 

Bill.    Well  done,  Albert! 

Sniggers  [after  a  sigh  of  content].    Why  didn't  you  tell  us? 

Albert.  'Cause  'e  won't  let  you  speak.  'E's  got  'is  plans 
and  'e  thinks  we're  silly  folk.  Things  must  be  done  'is  way. 
And  all  the  time  I've  give  'em  the  slip.     Might  'ave  'ad  one 


A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN  215 

o'  them  crooked  knives  in  him  before  now  but  for  me  who  give 
'em  the  slip  in  Hull. 

Bill.  Well  done,  Albert!  Do  you  hear  that,  Toffy? 
Albert  has  give  'em  the  slip. 

The  Toff.      Yes,  I  hear. 

Snicxjers.     Well,  what  do  you  say  to  that? 

The  Toff.    O.  .   .   .  Well  done,  Albert! 

Albert.    And  what  a'  you  going  to  do? 

The  Toff.    Going  to  wait. 

Albert.    Don't  seem  to  know  what  'e's  waiting  for. 

Sniggers.    It's  a  nasty  place. 

Albert.  It's  getting  silly,  Bill.  Our  money's  gone  and  we 
want  to  sell  the  ruby.    Let's  get  on  to  a  town. 

Bill.    But  'e  won't  come. 

Albert.    Then  we'll  leave  him. 

Sniggers.    We'll  be  all  right  if  we  keep  away  from  Hull. 

Albert.    We'll  go  to  London. 

Bill.    But  'e  must  'ave  'is  share. 

Sniggers.  All  right.  Only  let's  go.  [To  The  Toff.] 
We're  going,  do  you  hear?    Give  us  the  ruby. 

The  Toff.  Certainly.  [He  gives  them  a  ruby  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket;  it  is  the  size  of  a  small  hens  egg.  He  goes 
on  reading  his  paper. ^ 

Albert.  Come  on,  Sniggers.  [Exeunt  Albert  and 
Sniggers.] 

Bill.  Good-by,  old  man.  We'll  give  you  your  fair  share, 
but  there's  nothing  to  do  here — no  girls,  no  halls,  and  we  must 
sell  the  ruby. 

The  Toff.     I'm  not  a  fool,  Bill. 

Bill.  No,  no,  of  course  not.  Of  course  you  ain't,  and 
you've  helped  us  a  lot.    Good-by.     You'll  say  good-by? 

The  Toff.  Oh,  yes.  Good-by.  [Still  reads  his  paper. 
Exit  Bill.  The  Toff  puts  a  revolver  on  the  table  beside  him 
and  goes  on  with  his  papers.  After  a  moment  the  three  men 
come  rushing  in  again,  frightened.^ 

Sniggers  [out  of  breath].     We've  come  back,  Toffy. 

The  Toff.    So  you  have. 

Albert.    Toffy.   .    .    .   How  did  they  get  here? 

The  Toff.    They  walked,  of  course. 

Albert.    But  it's  eighty  miles. 

Sniggers.    Did  you  know  they  were  here,  Toffy? 


2i6  A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN 

The  Toff.    Expected  them  about  now. 
Albert.     Eighty  miles! 

Bill.    Toffy,  old  man   .    .    .  what  are  we  to  do? 
The  Toff.    Ask  Albert. 

Bill.  If  they  can  do  things  like  this,  there's  no  one  can  save 
us  but  you,  Toffy.  ...  I  always  knew  you  were  a  clever 
one.    We  won't  be  fools  any  more.    We'll  obey  you,  Toffy. 

The  Toff.  You're  brave  enough  and  strong  enough.  There 
isn't  many  that  would  steal  a  ruby  eye  out  of  an  idol's  head, 
and  such  an  idol  as  that  was  to  look  at,  and  on  such  a  night. 
You're  brave  enough.  Bill.  But  you're  all  three  of  you  fools. 
Jim  would  have  none  of  my  plans,  and  where's  Jim?  And 
George.  What  did  they  do  to  him? 
Sniggers.    Don't,  Toffy! 

The  Toff.     Well,  then,  your  strength  is  no  use  to  you. 
You  want  cleverness;  or  they'll  have  you  the  way  they  had 
George  and  Jim. 
All.    Ugh ! 

The  Toff.  Those  black  priests  would  follow  you  round 
the  world  in  circles.  Year  after  year,  till  they  got  the  idol's 
eye.  And  if  we  died  with  it,  they'd  follow  our  grandchildren. 
That  fool  thinks  he  can  escape  from  men  like  that  by  running 
round  three  streets  in  the  town  of  Hull. 

Albert.  God's  truth,  you  'aven't  escaped  them,  because 
they're  'ere. 

The  Toff.    So  I  supposed. 
Albert.    You  supposed! 

The  Toff.  Yes,  I  believe  there's  no  announcement  in  the 
Society  papers.  But  I  took  this  country  seat  especially  to  re- 
ceive them.  There's  plenty  of  room  if  you  dig,  it  is  pleasantly 
situated,  and,  what  is  more  important,  it  is  in  a  very  quiet 
neighborhood.  So  I  am  at  home  to  them  this  afternoon. 
Bill.     Well,  you're  a  deep  one. 

The  Toff.  And  remember,  you've  only  my  wits  between 
you  and  death,  and  don't  put  your  futile  plans  against  those  of 
an  educated  gentleman. 

Albert.  If  you're  a  gentleman,  why  don't  you  go  about 
among  gentlemen  instead  of  the  likes  of  us? 

The  Toff.  Because  I  was  too  clever  for  them  as  I  am  too 
clever  for  you. 

Albert.    Too  clever  for  them? 


A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN  217 

The  Toff.    I  never  lost  a  game  of  cards  in  my  life. 

Bill.    You  never  lost  a  game? 

The  Toff.     Not  when  there  was  money  in  it. 

Bill.    Well,  well! 

The  Toff.     Have  a  game  of  poker? 

All.    No,  thanks. 

The  Toff.    Then  do  as  you're  told. 

Bill.     All  right.  Toffy. 

Sniggers.  I  saw  something  just  then.  Hadn't  we  better 
draw  the  curtains? 

The  Toff.     No. 

Sniggers.    What? 

The  Toff.    Don't  draw  the  curtains. 

Sniggers.    O,  all  right. 

Bill.  But,  Toffy,  they  can  see  us.  One  doesn't  let  the 
enemy  do  that.     I  don't  see  why.    .    .    . 

The  Toff.    No,  of  course  you  don't. 

Bill.    O,  all  right,  Toffy.     [All  begin  to  pull  out  revolvers.'] 

The  Toff   [putting  his  own  away].     No  revolvers,  please. 

Albert.    Why  not? 

The  Toff.  Because  I  don't  want  any  noise  at  my  party. 
We  might  get  guests  that  hadn't  been  invited.  Knives  are  a 
different  matter.  [All  draw  knives.  The  Toff  signs  to  them 
not  to  draw  them  yet.  ToFFY  has  already  taken  back  his 
ruby.'\ 

Bill.     I  think  they're  coming.  Toffy. 

The  Toff.    Not  yet. 

Albert.    When  will  they  come? 

The  Toff.  When  I  am  quite  ready  to  receive  them.  Not 
before. 

Sniggers.     I  should  like  to  get  this  over. 

The  Toff.    Should  you?    Then  we'll  have  them  now. 

Sniggers.    Now? 

The  Toff.  Yes.  Listen  to  me.  You  shall  do  as  you  see 
me  do.  You  will  all  pretend  to  go  out.  I'll  show  you  how. 
I've  got  the  ruby.  When  they  see  me  alone  they  will  come  for 
their  idol's  eye. 

Bill.     How  can  they  tell  like  this  which  of  us  has  it? 

The  Toff.     I  confess  I  don't  know,  but  they  seem  to. 

Sniggers.    What  will  you  do  when  they  come  in? 

The  Toff.    I  shall  do  nothing. 


^i8  A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN 

Sniggers.    What? 

The  Toff.  They  will  creep  up  behind  me.  Then,  my 
friends,  Sniggers  and  Bill  and  Albert,  who  gave  them  the  slip, 
will  do  what  they  can. 

Bill.    All  right,  Toffy.    Trust  us. 

The  Toff.  If  you're  a  little  slow,  you  will  see  enacted  the 
cheerful  spectacle  that  accompanied  the  demise  of  Jim. 

Sniggers.    Don't,  Toffy.    We'll  be  there,  all  right. 

The  Toff.  Very  well.  Now  watch  me.  [He  goes  past 
the  windows  to  the  inner  door  R.  He  opens  it  inwards,  then 
under  cover  of  the  open  door,  he  slips  down  on  his  knee  and 
closes  it,  remaining  on  the  inside,  appearing  to  have  gone  out. 
He  signs  to  the  others,  who  understand.  Then  he  appears  to 
re-enter  in  the  same  manner.^ 

The  Toff.  Now,  I  shall  sit  with  my  back  to  the  door. 
You  go  out  one  by  one,  so  far  as  our  friends  can  make  out. 
Crouch  very  low  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  They  mustn't  see  you 
through  the  window.     [Bill  makes  his  sham  exit.^^ 

The  Toff.  Remember,  no  revolvers.  The  police  are,  I 
believe,  proverbially  inquisitive.  \The  other  two  follow  Bill. 
All  three  are  now  crouching  inside  the  door  R.  The  Toff 
puts  the  ruby  beside  him  on  the  table.  He  lights  a  cigarette. 
The  door  at  the  back  opens  so  slowly  that  you  can  hardly  say 
at  what  moment  it  began.  The  Toff  picks  up  his  paper. 
A  native  of  India  wriggles  along  the  floor  ever  so  slowly,  seek- 
ing cover  from  chairs.  He  moves  L.  where  The  Toff  is. 
The  three  sailors  are  R.  Sniggers  and  Albert  lean  forivard. 
Bill's  arm  keeps  them  back.  An  arm-chair  had  better  conceal 
them  from  the  Indian.  The  black  Priest  nears  The  Toff. 
Bill  tvatches  to  see  if  any  more  are  coming.  Then  he  leaps 
forward  alone — he  has  taken  his  boots  off — and  knifes  the 
Priest.  The  Priest  tries  to  shout  but  Bill's  left  hand  is  over 
his  mouth.  The  Toff  continues  to  read  his  sporting  paper. 
He  never  looks  around.^ 

Bill  [sotto  voce].  There's  only  one.  Toffy.  What  shall 
we  do? 

The  Toff   [without  turning  his  head].    Only  one? 

Bill.    Yes. 

The  Toff.  Wait  a  moment.  Let  me  think.  [Still  ap- 
parently absorbed  in  his  paper.]  Ah,  yes.  You  go  back,  Bill. 
We  must  attract  another  guest.    .    .    .    Now,  are  you  ready? 


A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN  219 

Bill.    Yes. 

The  Toff.  All  right.  You  shall  now  see  my  demise  at  my 
Yorkshire  residence.  You  must  receive  guests  for  me.  [He 
leaps  up  in  full  view  of  the  window,  flings  up  both  arms  and 
falls  to  the  floor  near  the  dead  Priest.'l  Now,  be  ready.  [His 
eyes  close.  There  is  a  long  pause.  Again  the  door  opens,  very, 
very  sloiuly.  Another  priest  creeps  in.  He  has  three  golden 
spots  upon  his  forehead.  He  looks  round,  then  he  creeps  up  to 
his  companion  and  turns  him  over  and  looks  inside  of  his 
clenched  hands.  Then  he  looks  at  the  recumbent  Toff.  Then 
he  creeps  toward  him.  Bill  slips  after  him  and  knifes  him  like 
the  other  with  his  left  hand  over  his  mouth.] 

Bill  [sotto  voce].    We've  only  got  two,  Toffy. 

The  Toff.     Still  another. 

Bill.    What'llwedo? 

The  Toff  [sitting  up].     Hum. 

Bill.    This  is  the  best  way,  much. 

The  Toff.  Out  of  the  question.  Never  play  the  same 
game  twice. 

Bill.    Why  not,  Toffy? 

The  Toff.     Doesn't  work  if  you  do. 

Bill.    Well? 

The  Toff.  I  have  it,  Albert,  You  will  now  walk  into 
the  room.    I  showed  you  how  to  do  it. 

Albert.    Yes. 

The  Toff.  Just  run  over  here  and  have  a  fight  at  this 
window  with  these  two  men. 

Albert,    But  they're  .    .    . 

The  Toff.  Yes,  they're  dead,  my  perspicuous  Albert.  But 
Bill  and  I  are  going  to  resuscitate  them.  .  .  .  Come  on. 
[Bill  picks  up  a  body  under  the  arms.] 

The  Toff.  That's  right.  Bill,  [Does  the  same.]  Come 
and  help  us.  Sniggers.  .  .  .  [Sniggers  comes.]  Keep  low, 
keep  low.  Wave  their  arms  about.  Sniggers,  Don't  show 
yourself.  Now,  Albert,  over  you  go.  Our  Albert  is  slain. 
Back  you  get,  Bill,  Back,  Sniggers,  Still,  Albert,  Mustn't 
move  when  he  comes.  Not  a  muscle.  [A  face  appears  at  the 
window  and  stays  for  some  time.  Then  the  door  opens  and, 
looking  craftily  round,  the  third  Priest  enters.  He  looks  at  his 
companions'  bodies  and  turns  round.  He  suspects  something. 
He  takes  up  one  of  the  knives  and  with  a  knife  in  each  hand 


220  A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN 

he  puts  his  back  to  the  ivall.  He  looks  to  the  left  and 
right.] 

The  Toff.  Come  on,  Bill.  {The  Priest  rushes  to  the 
door.     The  Toff  knifes  the  last  Priest  from  behind.] 

The  Toff.    A  good  day's  work,  my  friends. 

Bill.    Well  done.  Toffy.     Oh,  you  are  a  deep  one! 

Albert.    A  deep  one  if  ever  there  was  one. 

Sniggers.     There  ain't  any  more,  Bill,  are  theie? 

The  Toff.     No  more  in  the  world,  my  friend. 

Bill.  Aye,  that's  all  there  are.  There  were  only  three  in 
the  temple.     Three  priests  and  their  beastly  idol. 

Albert.  What  is  it  worth,  Toffy?  Is  it  worth  a  thousand 
pounds? 

The  Toff.  It's  worth  all  they've  got  in  the  shop.  Worth 
just  whatever  we  like  to  ask  for  it. 

Albert.    Then  we're  millionaires  now. 

The  Toff.  Yes,  and,  what  is  more  important,  we  no  longer 
have  any  heirs. 

Bill.    We'll  have  to  sell  it  now. 

Albert.  That  won't  be  easy.  It's  a  pity  it  isn't  small  and 
we  had  half  a  dozen.     Hadn't  the  idol  any  other  on  him? 

Bill.  No,  he  was  green  jade  all  over  and  only  had  this  one 
eye.  He  had  it  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead  and  was  a  long 
sight  uglier  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 

Sniggers.  I'm  sure  we  ought  all  to  be  very  grateful  to  Toffy. 

Bill.    And,  indeed,  we  ought. 

Albert.     If  it  hadn't  been  for  him,   .    .    . 

Bill.    Yes,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  old  Toffy.  .    .    . 

Sniggers.    He's  a  deep  one. 

The  Toff.  Well,  you  see  I  just  have  a  knack  of  foreseeing 
things. 

Sniggers.     I  should  think  you  did. 

Bill.  Why,  I  don't  suppose  anything  happens  that  our  Toff 
doesn't  foresee.     Does  it.  Toffy? 

The  Toff.  Well,  I  don't  think  it  does,  Bill.  I  don't  think 
it  often  does. 

Bill.  Life  is  no  more  than  just  a  game  of  cards  to  our 
old  Toff. 

The  Toff.    Well,  we've  taken  these  fellows'  trick. 

Sniggers  [going  to  window].  It  wouldn't  do  for  anyone 
to  see  them. 


A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN  221 

The  Toff.  Oh,  nobody  will  come  this  way.  We're  all 
alone  on  a  moor. 

Bill.     Where  will  we  put  them? 

The  Toff.    Bury  them  in  the  cellar,  but  there's  no  hurry. 

Bill.    And  what  then,  Toffy? 

The  Toff.  Why,  then  we'll  go  to  London  and  upset  the 
ruby  business.  We  have  really  come  through  this  job  very 
nicely. 

Bill.  I  think  the  first  thing  that  we  ought  to  do  is  to  give 
a  little  supper  to  old  Toffy.    We'll  bury  these  fellows  to-night. 

Albert.     Yes,  let's. 

Sniggers.    The  very  thing! 

Bill.    And  we'll  all  drink  his  health. 

Albert.    Good  old  Toflfy! 

Sniggers.  He  ought  to  have  been  a  general  or  a  premier. 
[They  get  bottles  from  cupboard,  etc.] 

The  Toff.  Well,  we've  earned  our  bit  of  a  supper.  [They 
sit  down.] 

Bill  [glass  in  hand].  Here's  to  old  Toffy,  who  guessed 
everything! 

Albert  a?zd?  Sniggers.    Good  old  ToflFy ! 

Bill.     Toffy,  who  saved  our  lives  and  made  our  fortunes. 

Albert  and  Sniggers.     Hear!    Hear! 

The  Toff.  And  here's  to  Bill,  who  saved  me  twice  to-night. 

Bill.    Couldn't  have  done  it  but  for  your  cleverness,  Toffy. 

Sniggers.    Hear,  hear!     Hear!   Hear! 

Albert.    He  foresees  everything. 

Bill.    A  speech.  Toffy.    A  speech  from  our  general. 

All.    Yes,  a  speech. 

Sniggers.    A  speech. 

The  Toff.  Well,  get  me  some  water.  This  whisky's  too 
much  for  my  head,  and  I  must  keep  it  clear  till  our  friends 
are  safe  in  the  cellar. 

Bill.  Water?  Yes,  of  course.  Get  him  some  water. 
Sniggers. 

Sniggers.    We  don't  use  water  here.    Where  shall  I  get  it? 

Bill.    Outside  in  the  garden.     {Exit  Sniggers.] 

Albert.    Here's  to  future! 

Bill.     Here's  to  Albert  Thomas,  Esquire. 

Albert.  And  William  Jones,  Esquire.  [Re-enter  Snig- 
gers, terrified.] 


222  A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN 

The  Toff.  Hullo,  here's  Jacob  Smith,  Esquire,  J.  P.,  alias 
Sniggers,  back  again. 

Sniggers.  Toffy,  I've  been  thinking  about  my  share  in  that 
ruby.     I  don't  want  it.  Toffy;  I  don't  want  it. 

The  Toff.    Nonsense,  Sniggers.    Nonsense. 

Sniggers.  You  shall  have  it.  Toffy,  you  shall  have  it  your- 
self, only  say  Sniggers  has  no  share  in  this  'ere  ruby.  Say  it, 
Toffy,  say  it! 

Bill.    Want  to  turn  informer.  Sniggers? 

Sniggers.  No,  no.  Only  I  don't  want  the  ruby,  Toffy.  .  .  ■. 

The  Toff.  No  more  nonsense,  Sniggers.  We're  all  in 
together  in  this.  If  one  hangs,  we  all  hang;  but  they  won't 
outwit  me.  Besides,  it's  not  a  hanging  affair,  they  had  their 
knives. 

Sniggers.  Toffy,  Toffy,  I  always  treated  you  fair,  Toffy. 
I  was  always  one  to  say.  Give  Toffy  a  chance.  Take  back  my 
share.  Toffy. 

The  Toff.    What's  the  matter?    What  are  you  driving  at? 

Sniggers.    Take  it  back,  Toffy. 

The  Toff.    Answer  me,  what  are  you  up  to? 

Sniggers.     I  don't  want  my  share  any  more. 

Bill.  Have  you  seen  the  police?  [Albert  pulls  out  his 
knife.] 

The  Toff.    No,  no  knives,  Albert. 

Albert,    What  then? 

The  Toff.  The  honest  truth  in  open  court,  barring  the 
ruby.    We  were  attacked. 

Sniggers.     There's  no  police. 

The  Toff.    Well,  then,  what's  the  matter? 

Bill.    Out  with  it. 

Sniggers.     I  swear  to  God.  .    .    . 

Albert.    Well  ? 

The  Toff.     Don't  interrupt. 

Sniggers.     I  swear  I  saw  something  what  I  didnt  like. 

The  Toff.    What  you  didn't  like? 

Sniggers  [in  tears].  O  Toffy,  Toffy,  take  it  back.  Take 
my  share.     Say  you  take  it. 

The  Toff.  What  has  he  seen  ?  [Dead  silence,  only  broken 
by  Sniggers's  sobs.  Then  steps  are  heard.  Enter  a  hideous 
idol.  It  is  blind  and  gropes  its  way.  It  gropes  its  way  to  the 
ruby  and  picks  it  up  and  screws  it  into  a  socket  in  the  forehead. 


A  NIGHT  AT  AN  INN  223 

Sniggers  still  weeps  softly,  the  rest  stare  in  horror.  The  idol 
Steps  out,  not  groping.     Its  steps  move  off,  then  stop.] 

The  Toff.    O,  great  heavens! 

Albert  [in  a  childish,  plaintive  voice\.    What  is  it,  Toffy? 

Bill.  Albert,  it  is  that  obscene  idol  \in  a  whisper]  come 
from  India. 

Albert.    It  is  gone. 

Bill.    It  has  taken  its  eye. 

Sniggers.    We  are  saved. 

A  Voice  Off  [with  outlandish  accent].  Meestaire  William 
Jones,  Able  Seaman.  [The  Toff  has  never  spoken,  never 
moved.     He  only  gazes  stupidly  in  horror.] 

Bill.  Albert,  Albert,  what  is  this?  [He  rises  and  walks 
out.  One  moan  is  heard.  Sniggers  goes  to  the  window.  He 
falls  back  sickly.] 

Albert  [in  a  whisper].    What  has  happened? 

Sniggers.  I  have  seen  it.  I  have  seen  it.  O,  I  have  seen 
it!     [He  returns  to  table.] 

The  Toff  [laying  his  fiand  very  gently  on  Sniggers's  arm^ 
speaking  softly  and  winningly.]     What  vi^as  it,  Sniggers? 

Sniggers.    I  have  seen  it. 

Albert.    What  ? 

Sniggers.    O  ! 

Voice.    Meestaire  Albert  Thomas,  Able  Seaman. 

Albert.     Must  I  go.  Toffy?    Toffy,  must  I  go? 

Sniggers  [clutching  him].    Don't  move. 

Albert   [going].     Toffy,  Toffy.     [Exit.] 

Voice.     Meestaire  Jacob  Smith,  Able  Seaman. 

Sniggers.  I  can't  go.  Toffy.  I  can't  go.  I  can't  do  it. 
[He  goes.] 

Voice.  Meestaire  Arnold  Everett  Scott-Fortescue,  late  Es- 
quire, Able  Seaman. 

The  Toff.    I  did  not  foresee  it.     [£a:iV.] 


[the  curtain.] 


THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT* 

By 
STARK  YOUNG 


♦Copyright,  1921,  by  Stark  Young.  Acting  rights,  amateur  and 
professional,  must  be  secured  from  the  author,  care  of  the  New  York 
Drama  League,  7  East  42  Street,  New  York. 


Stark  Young,  dramatist  and  critic,  the  author  of  The  Twi' 
light  Saint,  was  born  in  Como,  Mississippi,  on  October  1 1, 
i88i.  He  was  graduated  from  the  university  of  his  native 
state  and  a  year  later  took  his  master's  degree  at  Columbia 
University.  From  1907  to  19 15  he  taught  at  the  University 
of  Texas,  and  from  19 15  to  1921  he  was  professor  of  English 
at  Amherst  College.  His  travels  have  taken  him  to  Greece, 
and  to  Spain,  and  to  Italy  where  he  has  lingered,  making  a 
special  study  of  the  native  drama. 

The  text  of  The  Twilight  Saint  has  undergone  revision  by 
the  author  since  its  first  appearance.  It  was  acted  in  19 18  with 
Madretta,  another  of  the  author's  plays,  at  the  dramatic  school 
of  the  Carnegie  Institute  of  Technology  in  Pittsburgh,  under 
the  direction  of  Thomas  Wood  Stevens.  The  author  writes: 
"  The  only  instruction  I  should  like  to  propose  is  that  the 
actor  of  St.  Francis  keep  him  very  simple,  not  get  him  moraliz- 
ing and  long-faced.  In  Egan's  book  on  St.  Francis  ^  there  is 
a  picture  of  the  preaching  to  the  birds  in  which  Boutet  de 
Monvel  shows  a  Tuscan  type  that  is  my  idea  of  the  man  sim- 
plified." The  play  itself  suggests  charming  by-ways  of  litera- 
ture that  lead  in  one  direction  perhaps  to  Hewlett's  Earthwork 
Out  of  Tuscany  and  Josephine  Preston  Peabody's  The  Wolf 
of  Gubbio,  and  in  another  possibly  to  the  Saint's  own  Little 
Flowers,  and  Canticle  to  the  Sun. 

^  Maurice  F.  Egan,  Everybody's  St.  Francis,  with  pictures  by  M. 
Boutet  de  Monvel,  New  York,  1912. 


THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT 

CHARACTERS 

GuiDO,  the  husband,  a  young  poet. 
LiSETTA,  his  wife. 
PiA,  a  neighbor  woman. 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi. 

In  the  year  12 15  A.D. 

A  room  in  GuiDO's  house,  on  a  hillside  near  Bevagna.  It  is  a 
poor  apartment,  clumsily  kept.  On  your  left  near  the 
front  is  a  bed;  on  the  floor  by  the  bed  lie  scattered  pages 
of  manuscript.  A  table  littered  with  manuscripts  and 
crockery  stands  against  the  back  wall  of  the  room  to  the 
right.  On  the  right  hand  wall  is  a  big  fireplace  with  cop- 
per vessels  and  brass.  A  bench  sits  by  the  fireplace  and 
several  stools  about  the  room.  On  the  stone  flags  two 
sheepskins  are  spread. 

Through  the  open  door  in  the  middle  of  the  back  wall  rises  the 
slope  of  a  hill,  green  with  spring  and  starred  with  flowers. 
A  stream  is  visible  through  the  grass  and  the  drowsy  sound 
of  the  water  fills  the  air.  The  late  yellow  sunlight  falls 
through  a  window  over  the  bed  like  gilding  and  floods 
the  hill  without. 

LiSETTA  lies  on  the  bed,  still,  her  eyes  closed.  PiA  sits  on  the 
ingle  bench,  halfway  in  the  great  fireplace,  shelling  peas. 
She  is  a  little  peasant  woman  with  a  kerchief  on  her  head 
and  a  wrinkled  face  as  brown  as  a  nut. 

GuiDO  sits  at  the  table,  his  face  to  the  wall,  his  chin  on  his  palm. 

PlA. 

Guido,  Guido,  thou  hast  not  spoke  this  hour, 
Nor  read  one  word  nor  written  aught.    Dear  Lord, 

227 


228  THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT 

The  lion  on  the  palace  at  Assist 
Sits  not  more  still  in  stone!     Guido,  look  thou! 
GuiDO  [turninff  round  without  looking  at  her]. 
Yes,  old  Pia,  good  neighbor. 

PlA. 

Yes,  old  Pia!     Guido,  grieve  not  so  much, 
Lisetta  will  be  well  before  the  spring 
Comes  round  again. 
Guido. 

Yes,  Lisetta  will  be  well  perhaps.    God  grant ! 
Pia. 

Well,  what  then? 
Guido. 

'Tis  not  only  of  her  I  think,  Pia,  here  am  I 
Shut  in  this  house  from  month  to  month  a  nurse; 
Here  lies  she  sick,  this  child,  and  may  not  stir; 
And  I,  lacking  due  means  to  hire,  must  serve 
The  house;  while  my  best  self,  my  soul,  my  art, 
Rust.     My  soul  is  scorched  with  holy  thirst. 
My  temples  throb,  my  veins  run  fire;  but  yet. 
For  all  my  dim  distress  and  vague  desire. 
No  word,  no  single  song,  no  verse,  has  come — 
O  Blessed  God! — stifled  with  creature  needs. 
And  with  necessity  about  my  throat! 
Pia. 

Thy  corner  Is  too  hot,  the  glaring  sun 
Is  yet  on  the  wall. 
Guido. 

'Tis  not  that  sun  that  maddens  me,  O  Pia! 

Can  you  not  see  me  shrunk?     Have  you  not  heard 

That  other  Guido  of  Perugia 

How  he  is  grown?     How  lately  at  the  feast 
That  Ugolino,  the  great  cardinal. 

Spread  at  Assisi  Easter  night,  Guido 

Read  certain  of  his  verses  and  declaimed 

Pages  of  cursed  sonnets  to  the  guests. 
Pia. 

Young  Guido  of  Perugia,  thy  friend? 
Guido. 

Yea.     And  when  he  ended,  came  the  Duke 

Down  from  the  dais  to  kiss  that  Guide's  hand 


THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT  229 

Humbly,  and  said  that  poesy  was  king. 

PlA. 

Madonna,  kissed  by  the  Duke! 
GuiDO. 

And  I,  O  God,  I  might  have  honor  too 

Could  I  but  break  this  prison  where  I  drudge! 

PlA. 

Speak  low,  her  sleep  is  light.     Her  road  is  hard 
As  well  as  thine.     For  all  this  year,  since  thou 
Didst  bring  her  to  Rieto  here  to  us, 
Hath  she  lain  on  her  bed,  broken  with  pain. 
This  child  that  is  thy  wife  and  loveth  thee. 
GuiDO. 

Aye,  yes,  'tis  true,  she  loveth  me,  she  loveth  me, 
And  I  love  her.     'Tis  worse — add  grief  to  care, 
And  Poesy  fares  worse. 

PlA. 

And  she  is  grown  most  pale  and  still  of  late. 
GuiDO. 

Look,  Pia,  how  she  lieth  there  like  death. 

That  far-off  patience  on  her  face.     Now,  now, 

Surely  I  needs  must  make  a  song!     And  yet 

I  may  not ;  ashes  and  floor-sweeping  clog 

My  soul  within  me! 
Pia. 

Nay,  let  thy  dreams  pass.     Look  thou,  how  pale! 

Dear  Lord,  how  blue  her  little  veins  do  shine! 
GuiDO. 

Thou  art  most  kind,  good  neighbor,  to  come  here 

Helping  our  house.    And  it  is  very  strange 

That  when  we  are  so  kind  we  cannot  know 

The  heart  also.    For  in  my  soul  I  hear 

A  bell  summoning  me  always — 
Pia. 

If  I  should  stew  in  milk  the  peas,  maybe — 

Do  you  think  the  child  would  cat  it? 
GuiDO. 

For  thy  world  is  not  my  world,  kind  old  friend. 
Pia. 

Why  do  you  not  walk.  Guide,  for  a  while, 

I  have  an  hour  yet. 


230  THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT 

GUIDO. 

Then  I  will  go,  Pia.    But  not  for  long, 
I  will  come  back  soon  enough  to  my  chores,  be  sure; 
Mine  is  a  short  tether. 
[He  goes  out.    Lisetta  on  the  bed  opens  her  eyes.'\ 

LiSETTA. 

Pia. 
Pia. 

Yes,  dear  child. 
Lisetta. 

Pia,  turn  my  pillow,  I  am  stifled. 
Pia. 

There!     Thou  hast  slept  well? 
Lisetta. 

I  have  not  slept. 
Pia. 

Holy  Virgin,  thou  hast  not  slept! 
Lisetta. 

Pia,  think  you  I  did  not  know?    This  month 

I  scarce  have  slept  for  thinking  on  his  lot. 

I  read  his  fighting  soul.     Where  are  his  songs, 

The  great  renown  that  waited  him?     Down,  down, 

Struck  by  the  self-same  hand  that  shattered  me. 

I  listen  night  on  night  and  hear  him  moan 

In  his  sleep — 
Pia. 

It  is  his  love  for  thee,  Lisetta. 
Lisetta. 

The  padre  from  the  village  hemmed  and  said 

That  God  had  sent  me  and  my  sickness  here 

For  Guido's  cross  to  bear,  his  scourge.    They  thought 

I  slept — 
Pia. 

Thou  hast  dreamed  this,  he  loveth  thee,  Lisetta. 
Lisetta. 

Yea,  loveth  me  somewhat  but  glory  more. 

And  I  would  have  it  so.    O  Mother  of  God, 

When  wilt  thou  send  me  death?     O  Blessed  Mother, 

I  have  lain  so  still! 
Pia. 

Beware,  Lisetta,  tempt  not  God! 


THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT  231 

LiSETTA. 

Death  is  the  sister  of  all  them  that  weep,  Pia. 

PlA. 

Child,  child,  try  thou  to  sleep. 

LiSETTA. 

For  thy  sake  will  I  try. 
Pia. 

Aye,  sleep  now.     I  will  smooth  thy  bed. 
[Pia  begins  to  draw  up  the  covers  smooth.    She  stops  sud- 

denly  to  listen.] 

Hist! 

LiSETTA. 

What,  good  Pia? 
Pia. 

Footsteps.     Look,  it  is  a  monk. 
[Francis  of  Assisi  comes  to  the  door.] 
Francis. 

I  have  not  eaten  food  this  day.    Hast  thou 

Somewhat  that  I  may  eat? 
Pia. 

Alas,  poor  brother,  sit  thee  here;  there's  bread 

And  cheese  and  lentils,  eat  thy  store.     Poor  'tis, 

But  given  in  His  name. 
Francis. 

I  will  eat  then  and  bless  thee. 
Pia. 

He  taketh  but  a  crust! 
Francis. 

It  is  enough.     He  that  hath  eaten  long 

The  bread  of  the  heart  hath  little  hunger  in  him. 
Pia. 

Sit  thou  and  rest,  poor  soul. 
Francis. 

Nay,  I  must  go  on.     My  daughter,  child, 

Thou  sleepest  not  for  all  thy  lowered  lids. 

Tears  quiver  on  thy  lashes,  hast  thou  pain? 

LiSETTA. 

The  tears  of  women  even  in  dreams  may  fall, 
Good  brother.    Wilt  thou  not  bide? 
Francis. 

I  must  fare  on. 


232  THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT 

LiSETTA. 

Aye,  aye,  the  world  lies  open  to  thy  hand, 
But  unto  me  this  twelvemonth  is  a  death. 
The  flesh  is  dead,  and  dying  lies  my  soul. 
Shrunk  like  a  flower  in  my  fevered  hand. 
Francis  [he  goes  over  and  stands  beside  the  bed]. 
My  dear. 

LiSETTA. 

I  may  not  see  the  stars  rise  on  the  hills. 
Nor  tend  the  flocks  at  even,  nor  rise  to  do 
Aught  of  the  small  sweet  round  of  duties  owed 
To  him  I  love;  but  lie  a  burden  to  him, 
Calling  on  death  who  heareth  not. 
Francis. 

My  life  hath  given  me  words  for  thee  to  hear. 

LiSETTA. 

Surely  thy  life  is  peace. 
Francis. 

There  is  a  life  larger  than  life,  that  dwells 
Invisible  from  all;  whose  lack  alone 
Is  death.     There  in  thy  soul  the  stars  may  rise, 
And  at  the  even  the  gentle  thoughts  return 
To  flock  the  quiet  pastures  of  the  mind ; 
And  in  the  large  heart  love  is  all  thou  owest 
For  service  unto  God  and  thy  Beloved. 

LiSETTA. 

Little  Brother! 
Francis. 

May  you  have  God's  peace,  dear  friends.    Farewell. 

[He  goes  out.     Pia  stands  a  moment  wiping  her  eyes,  then 
returns  to  shelling  the  peas.   There  is  a  silence  for  a  while.] 

PlA. 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  long  upon  the  door? 

LiSETTA. 

Pia,  the  spring  smiles  on  the  tender  grass. 
Surely  the  sun  is  brighter  where  he  stood. 
Pia. 

Tis  a  glaring  sun  for  twilight. 

LiSETTA. 

Pia,  'twill  be  the  gentlest  of  all  eves. 


THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT  233 

Surely  God  sent  the  brother  for  my  need, 
To  give  His  peace. 

PlA. 

Aye,  and  my  old  heart  ripens  at  his  words 
Like  apples  in  the  sun.     'Tis  a  sweet  monk. 

LiSETTA. 

Who  is  he,  think  you? 

PlA. 

One  of  the  Little  Poor  Men,  by  his  brown. 
They  are  too  thin,  these  brothers,  and  do  lack 
Stomach  for  life.     [She  returns  to  the  peas.]     Mark,  oh, 

'tis  merry  now 
To  see  the  little  beggars  from  their  pods 
Popping  like  schoolboys  from  their  shoes  in  spring! 
The  season  hath  been  so  fine  and  dry  this  year 
My  peas  are  smaller  and  must  have  more  work. 
Well,  well,  labor  is  good,  and  things  made  scarce 
Are  better  loved. 

Lis  ETTA. 

Pia,  thou  art  a  good  woman. 

PlA. 

Child,  do  not  make  me  cry.     'Tis  thy  pure  heart 

Deceives  thee.     Stubborn  I  am  and  full  of  sloth. 

And  a  wicked  old  thing. 
Lis  ETTA. 

I  would  not  grieve  thee.     Pia,  'twas  my  love 

That  sees  thy  goodness  better  than  thyself. 
Pia  [hanging  the  kettle  of  peas  over  the  coals]. 

Lisetta,  I  see  the  sky  at  the  chimney  top. 
[Pia  begins  to  sing  in  her  sweet,  old,  cracketf  voice,  as  she 

stirs  the  pot:] 

Firefly,  firefly,  come  from  the  shadows. 
Twilight  is  falling  over  the  meadows. 
Burn,  little  garden  lamps,  picker  and  shimmer. 
Shine,  little  meadow  stars,  twinkle  and  glimmer. 
Firefly,  firefly,  shine,  shine/ 

Lisetta. 

Pia. 
Pia. 

Yes. 


234  THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT 

LiSETTA. 

Pia,  come  near  me  here.     [PiA  kneels  by  the  bed.]     Can 

you  not  see 
How  much  I  love?    If  I  could  only  speak 
To  him  or  he  to  me,  Guido,  my  love! 
Pia. 

Surely  he  is  beside  thee  often. 

Lis  ETTA. 

His  hand  is  near,  but  not  his  heart. 
Pia. 

Nay,  child,  'tis  Guido's  way.     He  speaks  but  little. 
When  I  speak  to  him  look  what  he  says, 
"  Yes,  good  Pia,"  'tis  not  much. 

LiSETTA. 

Aye,  tell  me  not.    On  winter  nights  I  lay 
Hearing  the  tree  limbs  rattle  there  like  hail, 
And  from  the  corner  eaves  the  dropping  rain 
Like  big  dogs  lapping  all  about — and  he 
Spoke  not  to  me.     He  sat  beside  his  taper 
But  never  a  line  wrote  down.     Once  I  had  words, 
Bright  dreams,  that  shone  through  him,  the  same  fire  shone 
Through  both,  his  songs  were  mine! 
Pia. 

Yes,  thine — rest  thee,  rest  thee! 

LiSETTA. 

But  more  his,  Pia,  more  his! 
Pia. 

Aye,  his.    Wilt  thou  not  eat  the  broth  ? 

LiSETTA. 

Not  now,  good  Pia,  'tis  not  for  food  I  die. 
'Tis  not  for  food. 
Pia. 

Yet  thou  must  eat. 

LiSETTA. 

Wilt  thou  not  read  one  song  of  these  to  me? 

PlA. 

Close  then  thine  eyes  and  rest. 

[LiSETTA  closes  her  eyes.  A  shepherd's  pipe  far-off  and  faint 
begins  to  play;  from  this  on  to  the  end  of  the  play  you 
can  hear  the  shepherd's  pipe.     PiA  takes  up  at  random  a 


THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT  235 

sheet  of  the  manuscripts.     S'he  sighs  a  great  sigh,  and  be- 
gins to  mimic  Lisetta's  voice.] 

The  Ballad  of  the  Running  Water 
O  music  locked  amid  the  stones. 
Beside  the — amid  the — 

LiSETTA. 

Read  on — and  thou  hast  told  me  day  by  day 
Thou  couldst  not  read. 

PlA. 

I  read  from  hearing  thee  from  day  to  day 
Repeat  the  verses. 

LiSETTA. 

Fie !    Give  them  to  me  here. 
[She  takes  the  paper  and  holds  it  in  her  hands  on  her  breast, 

and  reads  without  looking  at  it.] 

O  music  locked  amid  the  stones. 
My  love  hath  spoken  like  to  thee,   , 

Pia,  think  you — Pia,  do  you  not  hear 

The  mowers  and  the  reapers  in  the  fields 

Singing  the  evening  song,  and  the  twilight  pipes? 

The  twilight  is  the  hour  when  hearts  break! 

How  many  lonely  twilights  will  there  be 

Ere  God  will  spare  me? 
Pia  [kneeling]. 

Hush,  child,  hush,  darling! 
[LiSETTA  turns  her  face  to  the  window  by  the  bed.     PlA 

strokes  her  hand  and  sings  softly:] 

Firefly,  firefly,  come  from  the  shadows — 

There! — he  is  coming  now,  I  hear  his  steps 

Upon  the  gravel  road.    Good-night,  sweet  child, 

I'll  get  me  home. 

LiSETTA. 

Pia,  good-night  once  more. 
[PiA  slips  away.    GuiDO  enters  softly.     The  twilight  is  gone 

and  the   moon  falls  through   the  window  over  the  bed. 

The  hill  outside  is  bright  with  moonlight.] 
GuiDO   [softly]. 

Asleep,  Lisetta? 

LiSETTA. 

Guido!    Ah,  I  have  need  of  naught,  Guido. 
Thou  needst  not  leave  yet  the  pleasant  air. 


236  THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT 

GUIDO. 

Lisetta,  my  love,  I  have  been  long  from  thee. 
Lis  ETTA. 

Let  not  that  trouble  thee,  my  needs  are  few, 

And  Pia  is  most  kind. 
GuiDO. 

So  little  I  may  do. 
Lisetta. 

Thou  hast  already  served  to  weariness. 

[He  kneels  beside  her  bed.] 

GUIDO. 

My  love,  I  have  been  long  from  thee,  but  now 

I  will  not  leave  thee  any  more.    Oh,  God, 

Let  these  kisses  tell  my  heart  to  her. 
Lisetta. 

Guido,  my  love,  perhaps  I  dream  of  thee! 

Perhaps  God  sends  a  dream  to  solace  me. 
Guido. 

Along  the  stream  I  went  and  where  it  crossed 

Bevagna  road — where  the  chestnut  grows,  thou  knowest— 

Lisetta,  I  saw  him. 
Lisetta. 

Yes,  yes,  I  know,  whom  sawest  thou? 
Guido. 

The  brother,  Francis  of  Assisi. 
Lisetta. 

Guido,  sawest  thou  him? 
Guido. 

Aye,  him.    There  had  he  stopped  to  rest,  being  spent; 

And  round  him  came  the  birds,  beating  their  wings 

Upon  his  cloak  and  lighting  on  his  arm. 

I  saw  him  smile  on  them  and  heard  him  speak! 

"  My  brother  birds,  little  brothers,  ye  should  love  God 

Who  gave  you  your  wings  and  your  bright  songs  and  spread 

The  soft  air  for  you."     He  stroked  their  necks 

And  blessed  them.    And  then  I  saw  his  eyes. 

"  Father,"  I  cried,  "  speak  thou  to  me,  I  faint 

Beside  my  way!  " 
Lisetta. 

Aye,  and  he  said  ?    Guido,  what  said  he  ? 


THE  TWILIGHT  SAINT  237 

GUIDO. 

"  Thou  art  as  one  that  Heth  at  the  gate 
Of  Paradise  and  entereth  not.     For  God 
Hath  given  thee  thy  soul  for  its  own  life, 
And  not  for  glory  among  men." 

LiSETTA. 

Guido! 

GuiDO. 

Lisetta,  from  his  kind  eyes  I  drank,  and  knew 
How  God  had  magnified  my  soul  through  him, 
And  sent  me  peace.     And  I  returned  to  thee; 
For  here  in  thee  have  I  my  glory. 

Lisetta. 

Guido,  the  old  spring  comes  back  again.     And  now 

I  may  speak.    Guido,  look  through  my  window  vines  there 

Where  the  stars  rise.     O  Love,  I  have  not  slept 

For  lacking  thee.     And  often  have  I  seen 

The  moonlight  lie  like  sleep  upon  the  hill, 

And  in  the  garden  of  the  sky  the  moon 

Drift  like  a  blown  rose,  Guido,  and  yet 

I  might  not  speak. 

Guido. 

Thou  art  my  saint  and  shrine! 

Lisetta. 

Now  shall  my  dream  become  thy  song  again. 
And  the  long  twilight  be  more  sweet,  Guido! 

Guido. 

I  pray  thee  rest  thee  now  and  sleep.     Good-night. 
My  full  heart  breaks  in  song;  and  I  will  sit 
Hearing  the  blessed  saints  within  my  soul, 
And  will  not  stir  from  thee  lest  thou  shouldst  wake 
When  I  might  not  be  near  to  serve  thy  need. 

[The  shepherd  pipe  far-off  and  faint  is  heard  playinff.] 


[the  curtain.] 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO 
STRANGERS  * 

By 

LADY  ALIX  EGERTON 


♦Reprinted   by  special   arrangement  with   Gowans  &  Gray,   Ltd., 
Glasgow.     The  acting  rights  are  reserved. 


Costumes  for  The  Masque  of  the  Tiuo  Strangers 
designed  at  the  Washington  Irving  High  School. 


Between  the  Lady  Alice  Egerton,  who  acted  in  the  masque 
of  Comus,  which  Milton  composed  for  presentation  before 
John,  earl  of  Bridgewater,  then  President  of  Wales,  and  the 
Lady  Alix  Egerton,  author  of  The  Masque  of  the  Two 
Strangers,  lie  three  hundred  years;  but  throughout  these  cen- 
turies the  descendants  of  the  first  earl  of  Bridgewater  have 
cherished  consistently  the  great  traditions  of  English  literature. 
The  family  has  owned  for  many  generations  the  Ellesmere 
Chaucer  and  the  Bridgewater  manuscript  of  Comus,  both  of 
which  have  recently  been  edited  by  the  twentieth  century  Lady 
Alix  Egerton. 

Her  The  Masque  of  the  Two  Strangers  here  reprinted  was 
given  at  the  Washington  Irving  High  School  in  March,  192 1. 
The  designs  for  the  costumes  used  in  this  production  are  here 
illustrated.  The  following  notes  will  help  the  reader  to  recon- 
struct the  costumes  from  the  pictures: 

I.    The  Princess 

White  soft  material. 

Spangled   trimming. 

Mantle  of  blue. 

Veil  of  blue  net. 

Hennin  (head  dress)  in  silver. 

II.    Hope 

Glass  ball. 

Lavender    under    slip. 
Veil  of  rose  pink. 

III.    Joy 

Draping  of  orange  yellow. 
Flowers  of  various  colors. 
Vermilion   scarf. 

rV.    Love 

Long,  full  cape  of  deep  purple; 

cowl  falling  back. 
Cerise  costume. 
Silver  surcoat  and  helmet 

V.    Laughter 

Yellow   and  black. 
Trimming  of  bells. 
VI.    Poetry 

Light  green  with  silver; 

paper  design  on  border. 
241 


242     THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS 

VII.    Song 

Robe  dyed  in  rainbow  hues. 
Silver   wings. 

VIII.    Dance 

Vermilion. 

IX.   Poixier 

Bright  blue. 

Gems. 

Gilt  headpiece  jeweled. 

Mantle  and  sash  of  purple. 

X.   Fame 

Robe  of  deep  green. 

Gold    border. 

Laurel  leaves  on  gold  crown. 

XI.   Riches 

Knight's  close-fitting  short  coat  of  henna. 
(Flannel  dyed  to  represent  felt  or  leather.) 
Gold  lacings;  gold  paper  design  on  coat; 
gold  and  henna  helmet. 

XII.   Service 

Soft  yellow  shaded  to  brown  at  bottom 

of  skirt  and  sleeves. 
Front  panel  of  dark  green  forming  part 

of  head  drapery. 

XIII.  Sorroiju 

Gray. 

XIV.  Herald 

Dark  red  and  gold. 


PROLOGUE 

[Enter  a  Jester.] 

Good  people,  of  your  gentle  courtesy, 

I  pray  your  patience  now,  and  list  to  me. 

Before  you  I  will  here  present  to-day 

A  story  told  in  the  medieval  way. 

Now  sad — now  merry — here  and  there  a  song, 

While  through  it  all  a  meaning  runs  along. 

On  this  side  is  the  Court  of  Youth  where  dwells 

A  Princess  who  is  held  by  magic  spells. 

On  that  is  the  vast  Otherworld  from  whence 

The  great  Immortals  come  for  her  defense. 

Betwixt  the  greater  and  the  lesser  Power, 

That  duel  that  goes  on  from  hour  to  hour 

Throughout  the  ages,  I  would  have  you  see 

Depicted  in  this  passing  phantasy. 

[Music  of  Masque  begins.^ 

The  players  come  and  I  had  best  away; 
I'll  come  back  afterwards  and  end  my  say. 


«4S 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO 
STRANGERS  * 

CHARACTERS 


Joy. 

A  Herald. 

Laughter. 

Princess  Douce-Cgeur. 

Song. 

Sorrow. 

Dance. 

Fame. 

Service. 

Riches. 

Poetry. 

Power. 

Hope. 

Love. 

foY  and  Laughter  run  in  laughing,  chase  each  other  round 
the  stage  and  pelt  each  other  with  flowers. 

Laughter  [flinging  herself  on  the  ground,  breathless^. 

Ah,  it  is  good  to  run  and  laugh  again. 

I  am  so  weary  of  these  somber  days. 
Joy. 

And  I  of  sitting  silent  in  the  house. 

We  used  before  to  have  such  merry  games, 

Now  Douce-ccEur  will  not  even  smile. 
Laughter  [mysteriously]. 

She  says  that  she  will  never  laugh  again. 
Joy. 

And  when  I  called  to  her  to  come  and  play 

At  hide-and-seek  down  in  the  rose-garden, 

She  said  her  playing  days  were  over  now. 
Laughter. 

It  seems  so  strange.    Only  a  while  ago 

We  played  at  ball  across  the  laurel  hedge, 

And  when  the  ball  fell  in  the  fountain-court 

And  rolled  into  the  water,  floating  out 

*  I  am  indebted  to  Miss  Italia  Conti  for  the  original  scenario  of 
the  Masque,  and  to  former  Editors  of  Vanity  Fair  and  The  Croiun 
for  permission  to  reprint  the  two  songs  which  were  published  in 
their  journals. — Aux  Egerton. 

244 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS     245 

To  where  the  lilies  lay  half  closed  in  sleep, 
'Twas  she  who  went  in  barefoot,  with  her  dress 
Kilted  above  her  knees,  and  laughed  to  feel 
The  flicking  of  the  golden  fishes'  tails. 
She  said  her  pink  toes  looked  like  coral  shells, 
And  splashed  the  water  just  to  see  it  shine 
Like  diamonds  in  the  sun  upon  my  hair. 
A  while  ago  she  was  a  child  with  us. 
Joy  [sighs]. 

Laughter,  I  like  not  living  at  the  Court.     [Starting.] 
Someone  is  coming. 

[They  run  and  hide  behind  a  seat.  SoNG  enters,  humming 
to  herself  and  twisting  flowers  into  a  garland.  JoY  and 
Laughter  spring  out  upon  her  and  catch  hold  of  her 
hands  one  on  each  side.] 

Laughter.  Why,  'tis  only  Song, 

For  three  days  now  we  have  not  heard  thy  voice. 
Song. 

No,  Douce-cceur  says  life  is  too  sad  for  songs. 

Yet  music  is  a  gift  of  the  high  gods 

And  like  the  birds  I  sing  or  I  must  die. 
Joy  [coaxingly]. 

Sing  us  a  ballad  while  we  are  alone. 

Old  Service  is  asleep  beside  the  well 

And  will  not  liear  thee. 
Song  [sitting  on  the  seat]. 

Well,  what  shall  I  sing? 

How  would  you  like  "  All  on  an  April  Day?  " 
Joy  [clapping  her  hands]. 

About  the  knight  who  rode  to  Amiens  Town? 
Laughter. 

Then  will  we  sing  the  refrain,  Joy  and  L 
Song    [begins  very  softly,  and,  forgetting,  sings  louder  to 

the  end]. 

A  lover  rode  to  Amiens  town 

{All  on  an  April  day)  ; 
He  looked  not  up,  he  looked  not  down 
But  fixed  his  gaze  on  Amiens  town 

{Sing  hey! — the  Lover s  Way). 


246     THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS 

The  cuckoo  sang  above  his  head 

{All  on  an  April  day)  ; 
The  blossoming  trees  were  white  and  red. 
Yet  still  he  never  turned  his  head 

{Sing  hey! — the  Lovers  Way). 

The  dappled  grass  with  daisies  strewn 

{All  on  an  April  day) 
Was  trodden  by  his  horse's  shoon; 
He  heeded  not  those  daisies  strewn 

{Sing  hey! — the  Lover's  Way). 

He  wore  a  ragged  surcoat  green 

{All  on  an  April  day) 
But  no  device  thereon  was  seen. 
Nor  blazon  on  that  surcoat  green 

{Sing  hey! — the  Lover's  Way). 

He  rode  in  by  the  Eastern  Gate 
{All  on  an  April  day)  ; 
Though  poor  and  mean  was  his  estate 
Kings  have  gone  through  that  Eastern  Gate 
{Sing  hey! — the  Lover's  Way). 

He  stood  by  the  Cathedral  door 

{All  on  an  April  day) 
And  watched  of  ladies  fair  a  score 
Pass  in  through  the  Cathedral  door 

{Sing  hey! — the  Lover's  Way). 

A  knot  of  ribbon  at  his  feet 

{All  on  an  April  day) 

And  one  siuift  smile,  such  radiance  sweet 

Fell  with  the  ribbon  at  his  feet 

{Sing  hey! — the  Lover's  Way). 

He  hid  the  token  in  his  breast 

{All  on  an  April  day) 
Yet  to  his  lips  full  oft  he  prest 
The  ribbon  hidden  in  his  breast 

{Sing  hey! — the  Lover's  Way). 

A  lover  rode  to  Amiens  town 

{All  on  an  April  day). 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS     247 

A  beggar  wore  a  starry  crown 

And  a  King  rode  out  of  Amiens  town 

{Sing  hey! — the  Love/s  Way). 

[After  the  4th  verse  enter  Dance,  who  dances  through  the 
remaining  verses. \ 

[Enter  Service  hurriedly.^ 

Service.  How  now,  what  noise  is  this?  Thou  knowest, 
Song,  thy  voice  may  not  be  heard  at  all,  and  ye  children  too, 
ye  will  get  sent  away.  Sure,  that  ye  will.  Here  am  I  sent 
packing  off  to  seek  for  the  Wise  Woman  Poetry.  The  heralds 
too  are  up  and  down  the  land  with  proclamations.  Go  in,  go 
in;  Douce-coeur  is  wandering  with  the  Gray  Stranger  in  the 
garden,  and  when  she  comes,  may  want  your  company. 

[Enter  PoETRY.] 

Poetry. 

I  am  the  mouthpiece  of  the  Eternal  Gods, 
And  in  my  voice,  that  down  the  ages  rings, 
Men  hear  the  ceaseless  heart-beats  of  the  world. 
Without  me  all  that  has  been  would  have  died 
And  lain  forgotten  in  a  silent  grave. 
The  present  echoes  what  I  once  have  sung. 
The  future  holds  the  secrets  I  have  read. 
Service.     Hail,  and  well  met!    I  was  but  starting  forth  to 
seek  thee.    Thou  who  hast  the  wisdom  of  all  time  mayst  help 
us  in  our  hour  of  need;  an  evil  spell  has  been  cast  about  the 
Princess,  and  how  it  is  to  be  broken,  none  of  us  know. 
Poetry. 

Good  Service,  tell  me  all;  for  I  presume, 
Despite  the  tender  care  which  through  her  life 
Has  shielded  Douce-coeur  like  a  ring  of  steel, 
That  to  her  side  some  foe  has  won  his  way 
And  dimmed  the  peaceful  mirror  of  her  soul. 
Service.     Yea,  truly,  one  evening  as  the  sun  was  setting  a 
woman  clad  in  long  gray  robes  entered  the  Palace  gates  and 
meeting  the  Princess  on  the  terrace  walk  led  her  down  among 
the  cypresses.    They  sat  long  together  in  the  twilight  and  ever 
since  Douce-coeur  is  changed.     No  smile  curves  her  lips,  the 
sunlight  is  gone  from  her  face,  and  she  goes  always  with  veiled 


248     THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS 

head,  and  sad  unseeing  eyes.     I  heard  but  now  her  companions 
are  to  be  sent  away.     Joy,  Laughter,  Song  and  Dance,  all  to 
be  banished.     This  is  the  Gray  Woman's  doing,  but  why,  no 
man  can  say. 
Poetry. 

The  stranger  in  gray  robes  of  whom  ye  speak 
Is  Sorrow's  self,  whose  other  name  is  Pain. 
She  comes,  and  when  she  comes  none  may  resist. 
Against  her  none  have  power  to  bar  their  gates. 
Ye  who  have  always  cherished  Douce-cceur 
And  guarded  her  from  knowledge  of  the  World, 
Have  left  her  ignorance  a  prey  to  pain. 
Thus  night  has  fallen  on  a  tender  heart 
That  never  saw  the  shadows  for  the  sun. 
Queen  Sorrow,  who  can  hide  the  stars  of  heaven, 
Has  torn  the  golden  veil  from  top  to  hem, 
And  in  the  outer  darkness  Douce-cceur  stands, 
Seeing  no  rift  to  tell  of  light  eclipsed, 
Knowing  no  key  to  all  the  mystery. 
Service.    The  King,  her  father,  has  sent  proclamations  forth 
that  whoso  can  bring  back  the  smiles  to  Douce-coeur's  lips,  the 
sunshine    to    her    face,    whoso    can    win    her    from    the    Gray 
Woman's  side,  on  him  shall  half  the  kingdom  be  bestowed  and 
Douce-coeur's  hand  in  marriage.    The  Heralds  have  gone  cry- 
ing this  abroad,  and  we  have  word  three  suitors  are  traveling 
here  post-haste. 
Poetry. 

I  know  not  who  these  suitors  chance  to  be 
But  not  by  them  may  Sorrow  be  cast  out. 
One  only  holds  a  mightier  spell  than  hers, 
And  I  will  send  my  constant  messenger 
To  seek  him  to  the  ends  of  all  the  Earth. 
Come  to  me,  Child,  who  holdst  Eternal  Youth. 

[Enter  Hope.] 

Hope.    Didst  call  me,  Poetry? 

Poetry.  Yea,  child  of  my  Heart, 

Go  out  into  the  wilderness  for  me. 
Find  me  the  Stranger  in  a  Pilgrim's  garb 
Around  whose  head  the  song  birds  pipe  their  lays. 
Beneath  whose  feet  the  withered  flowers  revive. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS     249 

Say,  "  In  the  Court  of  Youth  Queen  Sorrow  reigns 
And  shadows  lie  like  night  on  Douce-coeur's  heart." 

Hope. 

In  the  great  Court  of  Youth,  Queen  Sorrow  reigns 
And  shadows  lie  like  night  on  Douce-coeur's  heart. 

Poetry. 

Bid  him  come  hither.     Haste  thee  on  thy  way. 

[Exit  Hope.     Trumpet  music.     Herald  heard  off.     "  Oyez! 
Oyez!     Oyez!^'\ 

Service.    Here  comes  the  Herald! 

[Enter  Herald  repeating  "  Oyez!  Oyez!  Oyez!"\ 

Herald  [facing  audience^.  Know  all  whom  it  may  concern 
throughout  this  realm,  that  as  One  has  come  and  brought  dark- 
ness on  the  Land,  to  all  good  people  is  this  Proclamation  made. 
Whoso  can  drive  the  Gray  Woman  forth,  whoso  can  free  the 
Princess  Douce-coeur  from  her  spell,  whoso  can  bring  back  the 
sunshine  to  the  Land,  unto  him  will  be  given  the  half  of 
the  kingdom,  and  the  Hand  of  the  Princess  Douce-coeur  in 
marriage.    Given  on  this  day  of  June.    Oyez !   Oyez !    Oyez !  " 

[Exit  Herald.     "Oyez!  Oyez!  Oyez!"  dies  away  in  the 
distance.  ] 

[Music.     Enter  JoY,  Laughter,  Song  and  Dance,  fol- 
lowed by  Princess  Douce-cceur  and  Sorrow.] 

Sorrow. 

Ye  children  of  the  Court,  your  hour  has  struck. 
Your  doom  of  banishment  has  been  pronounced, 
For  where  I  am  there  can  ye  never  be. 

Song. 

Douce-coeur,  I  pray  thee  hear  me.     Let  me  sing 
One  of  the  old  songs  that  we  loved — may  be 
The  memory  of  those  happy  days  will  rise 
And  lift  the  weight  of  sadness  from  thy  face. 

Poetry. 

Douce-coeur,  I  charge  thee,  listen.  All  the  past 
Of  Childhood  calls  thee  in  the  voice  of  Song. 

DoUCE-CCEUR. 

Sing  if  thou  wilt.     Those  days  were  long  ago. 


250     THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS 

Song. 

/  stood  beside  the  lilac  bush 

While  all  its  blossoms  rained  on  me, 

I  watched  the  white  wraith  of  a  moon 
Turn  to  pale  gold  above  the  sea. 

I  held  a  wand  of  almond  bough 

And  waved  it  three  times  circlewise, 

I  whispered  words  of  faery  lore 

With  beating  heart  and  close  shut  eyes* 

I  oped  them  on  a  forest  scene 
Of  summer-land ;  the  open  glade 

Lay  shining  like  a  tourmaline 
Set  in  a  ring  of  duller  jade. 

I  saw  three  queens  with  shining  crowns 
Go  riding  by  on  palfreys  gray; 

I  saw  three  knights  that  followed  close. 
And  dreams  were  in  their  eyes  that  day. 

I  saw  a  minstrel  with  his  harp. 

His  cloak  was  green  and  patched  and  torn; 
I  saw  a  hunter  with  his  bow, 

I  heard  the  winding  of  his  horn. 

I  saw  a  bush  of  lavender 

With  clouds  of  fluttering  butterflies. 

Then  I  looked  backward  to  the  earth 
And  broke  my  faery  spell  with  sighs. 

DOUCE-CCEUR. 

I  cannot  bear  thy  music.     In  my  heart 

No  answering  chords  respond.     The  past  is  dead. 

I  hear  the  tears  of  thousands  in  thy  voice. 

When  Sorrow  speaks — I  hear  no  tones  but  hers. 
Sorrow. 

No,  thou  art  mine,  Princess.     I  hold  thee  fast. 
Poetry. 

Douce-coeur,  I  bid  thee  raise  thy  heavy  eyes. 

Dance  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  my  heart. 

Born  when  the  rhythm  of  the  stars  was  voiced, 

The  past  and  future  meet  alike  in  her. 

Let  her  bring  back  the  sunshine  to  thy  face. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS     251 

Dance. 

With  flying  feet  we  chased  the  hours  away. 
I  used  to  make  thee  clap  thy  hands  in  glee 
And  thought  to  go  with  thee  along  the  years. 

DOUCE-CCEUR. 

My  feet  are  lead,  but  dance  on  if  thou  wilt, 
What  can  the  future  hold  for  me  and  thee? 
[As  the  Dance  ends,  she  cries :\ 

Ah,  Sorrow,  bid  them  cease  and  drive  them  hence. 

Send  Joy  and  Laughter,  Song  and  Dance  away. 

Call  Silence  here  who  is  thy  foster-child. 

I  am  afraid  of  all  this  mocking  world 

And  fain  would  live  alone,  alone  with  thee. 
Sorrow. 

Go  forth,  go  forth  into  the  wilderness.     Here  is  no  room 
for  ye. 

Go   forth    into    the  void   that   lies   beyond.      Here    I    in 
majesty 

Henceforth  shall  reign,  veiling  the  sun  and  stars  to  all 
eternity. 

Go  forth.     Let  wide-eyed  Silence  take  the  place  ye  occu- 
pied before 

Where  flowers  ye  scattered  he  henceforth  shall  strew  ashes 
upon  the  floor. 

Twilight  shall  fall  upon  this  Court  of  Youth  now  and  for 
evermore. 

{Exeunt  Song,  Dance,  Joy,  and  Laughter.] 

Poetry. 

Douce-coeur,  thine  eyes  are  bound.     Thou  dost  but  see 

With  vision  warped  by  her  who  holds  thy  hand. 

I,  who  have  watched  the  web  of  Life  unfold 

And  hold  the  secrets  of  a  million  lives, 

Can  tell  thee  from  the  heights  whereon  I  dwell, 

It  is  not  thus  that  thou  wilt  help  the  world. 

Thou  canst  not  right  the  wrong  with  further  wrong. 

But  now  thine  ears  are  dulled;  thou  wilt  not  hear 

What  I  might  teach  thee. 

[During  this  speech  enter  Herald  who  speaks  to  Service. 
Exit  Herald.] 


252     THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS      ' 

Service.  Three  suitors,  Fame,  Riches,  and  Power  are  at  the 
gate,  Princess,  and  claim  an  audience.  They  have  banished  the 
Gray  Woman  from  the  side  of  others  and  seek  to  do  this  for 
thee.  With  them  they  bring  charms  that  have  before  broken 
the  spells  of  Sorrow;  these  are  beyond  price  but  each  asks  in 
exchange  thy  hand  in  marriage  as  promised  in  the  proclamation 
cried  by  the  heralds. 

DouCE-CCEUR   {turning  to  SoRROW]. 
What  must  I  do? 

Sorrow.  Bid  them  approach,  my  child; 

It  may  be  their  rich  gifts  will  pleasure  thee. 

{Enter  Herald  followed  by  Fame.] 

Herald. 

Fame,  Lord  of  the  Marches  of  the  East,  salutes  thee. 

{Exit  Herald.] 

Fame. 

Fame  am  I  called,  Princess.    I  bring  thee  this 
Crown  of  Unfading  Leaves  for  which  men  pray 
And  toil  throughout  their  lives — unsatisfied. 
It  shall  be  thine  unsought.     Grant  me  thy  hand, 
And  thou  shalt  live  in  glamour  of  high  destiny. 
Thy  name  shall  sound  in  honor  through  the  world; 
Thy  words  shall  set  the  hearts  of  men  aflame. 
Let  me  but  place  the  wreath  about  thy  head, 
Thus  shalt  thou  strike  this  lyre  with  deathless  notes 
Which  shall,  vibrating  through  the  fields  of  space, 
Ring  on,  and  on,  nor  ever  find  a  goal. 

Sorrow. 

Deaf  are  the  ears  on  which  thy  phrases  fall. 
With  one  so  young  what  are  thy  spells  to  mine? 

DoUCE-CCEUR. 

I  see  thy  wreath  of  leaves,  entwined  with  asps 
Whose  forked  tongues  whisper  "  jealousy  and  hate." 
Thy  harp  is  out  of  tune  with  Sorrow's  voice. 
Poetry. 

She  is  too  tender  for  thine  upward  way. 
The  solitude  of  those  who  follow  thee 
Is  not  for  her.    Pass  on,  my  lord,  pass  on. 

{Enter  Herald,  followed  by  Riches.] 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS     253 


Costumes  for  The  Masque  of  the  Two  Strangers 
designed  at  the  Washington  Irving  High  School. 


254     THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS 

Herald. 

Riches,  Lord  of  the  Marches  of  the  West,  salutes  thee. 

[Exit  Herald.] 

Riches. 

My  name  is  Riches,  and  I  offer  thee 

A  store  of  wealth  exhaustless  as  the  sand. 

This  is  the  symbol  of  my  opulence, 

A  casket  in  whose  depths  gold  never  fails. 

Grant  me  thy  hand,  and  thou,  Princess,  shalt  gain 

All  that  the  world  contains  of  happiness. 

Thy  palace  shall  be  built  of  precious  stones. 

And  thou  shalt  walk  on  rose-leaves  every  day. 

Sorrow  shall  be  forgotten  in  my  arms. 

Nothing  shall  be  denied  thee  wealth  can  buy. 

All  things — all  men  yield  to  the  touch  of  gold. 
Sorrow. 

Blind  are  the  eyes  on  which  thy  visions  rise. 

My  spells  have  turned  thy  glories  into  dust. 
Douce-cceur. 

The  gold  thou  offerest  me  is  stained  with  blood; 

Thy  precious  stones  were  won  with  tears  and  toil; 

The  sum  of  all  thy  wealth  could  not  reflower 

The  arid  wastes  that  Sorrow  has  laid  bare. 
Poetry. 

She  is  too  simple  for  thy  promises ; 

To  one  who  knows  not  Sister  Poverty 

Thy  lures,  my  lord,  appear  as  idle  words. 

[Enter  Herald,  followed  by  Power.] 

Herald. 

Power,  Lord  of  the  Marches  North  and  South,  salutes  the^ 

[Exit  Herald.] 

Power. 

My  name.  Princess,  is  Power  and  this  my  gift. 
My  brothers  brought  thee  fair  renown  and  gold 
With  freedom  from  the  spells  that  Sorrow  weaves. 
All  these  I  offer  thee.     If  thou  accept, 
Together  we  will  sway  men's  destinies, 
Together  we  may  rule  their  hearts — their  souls — 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS     255 

Together  turn  the  very  universe. 
Our  throne  shall  rise  a  monument  of  might, 
Its  steps  shall  mount  from  the  green  land  of  earth, 
Its  canopy  shall  scrape  the  stars  of  Heaven. 
Sorrow. 

I  have  set  that  about  her  like  a  net 

Thou  canst  not  deal  v^^ith.     Never  yet,  O  Power, 

Hast  thou  been  known  to  cut  through  cords  of  fear. 

DOUCE-CCEUR. 

I  would  not  wield  thy  scepter  for  an  hour. 
The  burden  of  its  weight  would  bear  me  down. 
Poetry. 

She  is  too  j'oung,  too  gentle  for  the  heights 

Where  thou  wouldst  raise  her.     Be  content,  my  lords; 

What  ye  have  done  is  well,  but  One  alone 

Can  break  the  spell,  and  he  is  at  the  gates. 

Already  Hope  returns.     He  comes,  he  comes. 

[Enter  HoPE  running.] 

Hope. 

The  stranger  comes ;  he  whom  I  went  to  seek. 
Fame. 

The  Stranger  comes  whose  music  fills  the  world. 
Riches. 

The  Stranger  comes,  whose  treasure  gilds  the  world. 
Power. 

The  Stranger  comes,  whose  scepter  rules  the  world. 
Poetry  [to  Sorrow]. 

Now  shall  thy  spell  be  broken.    Dost  thou  hear 

The  measured  footsteps  of  approaching  Fate? 

The  one  who  comes  clad  in  a  Pilgrim's  garb 

Has  ever  proved  thy  silent  conqueror. 
Sorrow. 

I  yield  to  him  who  is  the  greatest  here, 

But  those  who  have  not  met  me  by  the  way 

Can  never  know  him  as  he  may  be  known. 

They  only  who  have  trod  the  dark  abyss 

May  dare  to  stand  upon  the  topmost  height. 

For  they  whose  eyes  were  blindfold  for  awhile 

Alone  can  bear  that  blaze  of  brilliant  light. 

Thus  have  I  brought  thee  more  than  all  thy  Court. 


256     THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS 

Learn  from  his  lips  to  see  the  world  anew. 
I  drew  that  gray  veil  all  about  thy  head 
Thinking  perchance  to  keep  thee  for  my  own, 
But  thou  wert  made  for  sunlight,  not  for  gloom. 
Thus  do  I  leave  thee.    Fare  thee  well,  Princess ! 

[Enter  Love.] 

DoucE-ccEUR  [starts  up  and  tries  to  hold  Sorrow  back]. 
Ah,  stay  with  me,  thou  art  my  only  friend! 

[Love  and  Sorrow  look  at  each  other,  she  draws  her  veil 
across  her  face  and  exit.] 

DoUCE-CCEUR. 

Who  art  thou,  Stranger,  in  a  pilgrim's  guise 

Who  comest  unattended,  unannounced? 
Love. 

I  may  not  tell  thee  that.    Thou  first  must  learn 

Out  of  thine  own  heart  to  recall  my  name. 
Douce-cceur. 

Fame,  Power,  and  Riches  brought  me  costly  gifts 

Which  I  refused. 
Love.  I  come  with  empty  hands. 

Douce-cceur. 

Thy  coming  caused  Queen  Sorrow  to  depart; 

What  right  hast  thou  to  drive  my  friends  from  me? 
Love. 

I  came  to  bring  thee  swift  deliverance, 

She  laid  a  spell  upon  thee  which  in  time 

Had  turned  thy  heart  to  unresponsive  stone. 
Douce-cceur. 

She  brought  me  peace  and  sure  oblivion 

Of  all  this  dark  and  weary  world  around. 
Love. 

Art  thou  so  sure,  Princess,  the  world  is  dark? 
Douce-cgeur. 

So  sure?     Have  I  not  heard  the  children  weep? 

Is  not  my  heart  torn  with  their  piteous  cries? 

We  live,  and  round  us  lies  their  sea  of  tears, 

A  mighty  sea  that  could  engulf  a  realm. 
Love. 

I  met  a  Child  outside  thy  Palace  once. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS     257 

His  dress  was  ragged,  but  he  smiled  at  me, 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  purple  flower. 

I  knew  it  for  the  magic  flower  of  Dream. 

I  asked  him  "  Art  thou  happy?  "  and  he  said 

"I'm  mostly  hungry;  sometimes  I  am  cold; 

And  there  are  stones  and  thorns  that  hurt  my  feet, 

But  while  my  Flower  lives  I  am  quite  content. 

And  I  have  friends  too,  in  the  Palace  there; 

Laughter  and  Dance  they  come  and  play  with  me. 

I  met  that  Child  to-day,  Princess.    His  face 

Was  white  and  pinched,  and  down  his  baby  cheeks 

The  tears  were  running,  "  See,  my  Flower  has  died, 

And  Dance  and  Laughter  have  been  sent  away. 

Joy  too  is  gone.    Queen  Sorrow  reigns  at  Court." 

Even  the  children  now  can  play  no  more. 

He  never  knew  before  the  world  was  dark. 

Art  thou  so  sure.  Princess,  the  Child  w^s  wrong? 

DOUCE-CCEUR. 

Have  I  not  heard  bereaved  mothers  weep? 
Love. 

There  thou  dost  touch  a  chord  in  ignorance. 

Thou  canst  not  guess  the  strength  of  Motherhood, 

The  hopes,  the  joys,  the  passionate  regrets. 

She  who  has  borne  her  child  close  to  her  heart 

Has  lit  a  star  in  Heaven  that  lights  her  way. 

I  kneel  by  them  in  their  Gethsemane 

And  teach  them  how  to  weave  immortal  wreaths 

Out  of  the  sweetest  flowers  of  Memory ; 

For  them  the  sun  still  shines  behind  the  clouds, 

Art  thou  so  sure  the  world  is  wholly  dark? 

DoUCE-CCEUR. 

There  echo  in  my  ears  the  groans  of  Toil, 
Of  those  who  labor  on  from  year  to  year 
Until  they  sink  beneath  their  weary  lot. 
Love. 

Toil  is  the  destiny  of  man.  Princess, 

And  none  may  question  the  Supreme  Decree. 

Perchance  through  toil  alone  man  may  redeem 

A  past  that  is  forgotten.    Who  can  tell? 

And  there  is  still  some  aftermath  of  joy 

In  labor  well  achieved,  some  dignity 


258     THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS 

In  toil  accomplished.     If  the  way  is  hard 
And  seeming  endless,  those  who  seek  for  me 
Will  often  find  me  singing  at  their  side. 
Mine  is  the  Brotherhood  of  Sympathy. 
But  thou  hast  banished  Song,  in  silence  now 
The  toilers  have  to  go  upon  their  way. 
Art  thou  so  sure,  it  was  all  dark  before? 

DOUCE-CCEUR. 

What  light  is  there  for  those  who  strive  and  fail? 

Love. 

One  only  fails.     He  whom  some  term  Success, 

He  who  gives  heart  and  soul  and  youth  and  strength 

To  an  unworthy  cause.    Failure  is  he 

Who  sacrifices  me  before  the  world, 

Who  prostitutes  the  God  in  him  for  what 

Will  turn  to  dust  and  ashes  in  his  hand. 

'Tis  he  alone  is  outcast  though  he  thinks 

Himself  the  sun  of  all  the  universe. 

To  those.  Princess,  who  striving  seem  to  fail, 

It  is  not  failure,  for  none  see  the  end. 

And  they  who  sigh  are  only  those  who  seek 

An  earlier  consummation  than  is  just; 

If  they  cling  fast  to  me  they  still  behold 

The  white  star-flowers  Hope  plants  about  the  world. 

Who  knows  to  what  fair  land  rough  seas  may  lead? 

DOUCE-COEUR. 

Lo!  over  all  I  see  the  cruel  hand 

Of  Death  outstretched,  certain  and  pitiless. 

Love. 

The  hand  of  Death  is  full  of  tenderness. 
He  leads  men  through  that  dark  mysterious  gate- 
That  all  must  pass  into  another  life — 
To  other  lives  that  through  the  cycles  bring 
The  souls  of  men  upward  from  step  to  step, 
Uniting  those  for  ever  who  are  one. 
Death  hushes  them  like  children  on  his  breast. 
Setting  his  own  smile  on  their  silent  lips — 
That  tender  smile  of  strange  triumphant  peace. 
Death  is  my  Brother,  and  I  say  to  thee. 
Learn  to  know  me,  thou  wilt  not  fear  his  hand. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS     259 

DOUCE-CCEUR. 

Another  hand  is  knocking  at  my  heart 
Whose  touch  I  know  not,  and  I  feel  afraid — 
Afraid  to  listen.    Yet  I  long  to  hear. 
Stranger,  who  art  thou?    Let  me  see  thy  face. 
Love. 

Learn  to  know  me  and  thou  shalt  nothing  fear. 

DoUCE-CCEUR. 

Who  art  thou?    Let  me  look  into  thine  eyes. 
Love. 

Learn  to  know  me  and  thou  wilt  find  the  Light. 

DoUCE-CCEUR. 

Pilgrim,  who  art  thou?     Let  me  know  thy  name. 
Love. 

Dost  thou  not  know  me,  Douce-coeur? 
DoucE-ccEUR  [slowly]. 

Thou  art  Love! 

Love. 

And  dost  thou  know  the  meaning  of  my  name? 
Tell  me  thou  art  not  fearful  any  more. 

Douce-cceur. 

The  darkness  that  was  bound  about  mine  eyes 
Is  falling  from  me.     In  the  growing  light 
The  answer  to  Life's  riddle  is  made  clear. 
I  seem  to  stand  upon  a  height,  caught  up 
In  ecstasy  of  rapture  near  the  sun. 
The  day  is  dawning;  far  before  my  eyes 
I  see  the  earth  spread  out  there  like  a  map. 
Shadow  and  sunshine  traveling  on  the  road 
O'ertake  each  other,  mingle — and  are  one. 

Fame. 

O  Love,  all  hail!    What  is  my  crown  to  thine? 

Thy  music  is  the  song  of  all  the  stars 

Which  rings  through  every  heart  attune  to  thine. 

Riches. 

O  Love,  all  hail!    What  is  my  wealth  to  thine? 
Thy  treasures  are  the  moons  of  happiness. 
Thy  boundless  gold  the  sunshine  of  the  world. 

Power. 

O  Love,  all  hail!    Thine  is  the  greater  rule. 


26o     THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS 

The  force  predominating.    Thou  alone 
Art  the  unvanquished  King  who  conquers  all. 
Poetry. 

O  Love,  whose  face  is  sought  by  all  the  world, 

Bid  her  go  forth  out  of  her  Palace  gates 

Into  her  kingdom  that  lies  all  around, 

Teach  her  what  means  to  use  to  right  the  wrong 

And  ease  the  burden  man  has  laid  on  man. 

My  voice  that  once  could  rouse  men's  sleeping  souls 

Grows  weary,  and  men  often  heed  me  not, 

Turning  deaf  ears  that  will  not  hear  my  words; 

'Tis  thou  alone  canst  wind  that  mystic  horn 

Which  wakes  alike  the  sleeping  and  the  dead. 

DOUCE-CCEUR. 

0  Love,  I  pray  thee  call  the  children  back, 

1  am  ashamed  to  think  I  drove  them  forth, 
I  erred  in  ignorance.     Forgive  me,  lord. 

[Enter  Joy,  Laughter,  Song  and  Dance.] 

Love. 

All  ye  who  came  to  battle  Sorrow's  spell, 

Be  with  her  now.    And  ye  who  hold  in  fee 

Her  happy  days,  go  with  her  through  the  years. 

I  all  unseen  will  guide  her  destiny. 

And  when,  Princess,  I  come  again  to  thee, 

A  worshiper  will  follow  in  my  train. 

From  other  lips  than  mine  thou  then  shalt  learn 

The  sweetest  and  the  tenderest  tale  of  all. 
Music. 

Now  let  us  join  with  Song.     In  merry  mirth 

Draw  to  a  fitting  close  our  Interlude. 
Song. 

Sorrow  reigned  her  little  day 

Love  has  driven  her  far  away 

Brought  the  sunshine  back  to  Court 

Thus  we  end  in  merry  sport. 

[Exeunt  All.] 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  TWO  STRANGERS     261 

EPILOGUE 

[Enter  Jester.] 

The  Tale  is  over  and  their  parts  are  done, 
And  Love  again  has  proved  the  strongest  one. 
I  wonder  has  it  pleased  you  now  to  see 
The  oldest  tale  told  thus  in  phantasj^ 
And  let  your  answer  be  whate'er  it  may, 
Whether  your  thumbs  be  up  or  down  to-day 
Will  hurt  not  me.     I  did  not  write  the  play. 

[the  curtain.] 


THE  INTRUDER 

By 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 


Maurice  Polydore  Marie  Bernard  Maeterlinck,  to  give  him 
his  full  baptismal  name,  was  born  in  Ghent  on  August  29, 
1862.  He  was  sent  to  the  Jesuit  College  de  Sainte-Barbe,  the 
institution  which  another  great  Belgian,  Emile  Verhaeren,  also 
attended.  In  1885,  Maeterlinck  entered  the  University  of 
Ghent  to  study  law,  but  his  practice  of  this  profession  was  con- 
fined to  a  scant  year  or  two.  Maeterlinck's  chief  interest  in 
his  college  years  seems  to  have  been  the  modern  movement  in 
Belgian  literature.  But  the  frequency  of  his  visits  to  Paris  in- 
creased in  the  years  between  1886  and  1896,  and  finally  in  the 
latter  year  he  settled  there. 

The  following  word  picture  supplements  the  photographs  of 
Maeterlinck  that  are  so  frequently  reproduced  in  our  maga- 
zines and  newspapers:  "  Maeterlinck  is  easily  described:  a  man 
of  about  five  feet  nine  in  height,  inclined  to  be  stout;  silver 
hair  lends  distinction  to  the  large  round  head  and  boyish  fresh 
complexion ;  blue-gray  eyes,  now  thoughtful,  now  merry,  and 
an  unaffected  off-hand  manner.  The  features  are  not  cut,  left 
rather  '  in  the  rough,'  as  sculptors  say,  even  the  heavy  jaw  and 
chin  are  drowned  in  fat;  the  forehead  bulges  and  the  eyes  lose 
color  in  the  light  and  seem  hard ;  still,  an  interesting  and  attrac- 
tive personality." 

Maeterlinck's  fame  rests  on  his  poetry  and  his  essays  no  less 
than  on  his  plays.  L'lntruse,  The  Intruder,  reprinted  here, 
belongs  to  the  early  years  of  his  activity  as  a  playwright.  It 
was  printed  in  1890  in  a  Belgian  periodical,  ha  Wallonie,  and 
was  acted  for  the  first  time  a  year  later  at  Paul  Fort's  Theatre 
d'Art  in  Paris,  at  a  performance  given  for  the  benefit  of  the 
poet,  Paul  Verlaine,  and  the  painter,  Paul  Gauguin.  Maeter- 
linck, though  publishing  volumes  of  essays  from  time  to  time, 
continues  to  write  for  the  theatre.^  In  1908  The  Blue  Bird, 
dramatizing  the  quest  for  Truth,  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
modern  plays,  was  given  for  the  first  time  in  Moscow,  to  be 
followed  ten  years  later  by  the  premiere  in   New  York  of  a 

^  For  bibliography,  see  Jethro  Bithell,  L'lje  and  Writinqs  of  Maurice 
Maeterlinck,  London  and  New  York,  1913. 

265 


266  THE  INTRUDER 

sequel,  The  Betrothal,  similarly  dramatizing  the  search  for 
Beauty.  In  1910  came  his  translation  of  Macbeth  into  French. 
A  year  later  he  was  awarded  the  Nobel  prize  for  literature. 

The  Intruder,  the  theme  of  which  is  the  mysterious  coming 
of  death,  is  an  illustration  of  one  of  Maeterlinck's  pet  theories 
in  regard  to  the  subject  matter  of  the  drama.  He  expresses  it 
in  this  way  in  his  famous  essay  on  The  Tragic  in  Daily  Life: 
"  An  old  man,  seated  in  his  armchair,  waiting  patiently  with 
his  lamp  beside  him — submitting  with  bent  head  to  the  pres- 
ence of  his  soul  and  his  destiny — motionless  as  he  is,  does  yet  live 
in  reality  a  deeper,  more  human,  more  universal  life  than  .  .  . 
the  captain  who  conquers  in  battle."  To  plays  based  on  this 
theory  has  been  given  the  name  "  static  drama."  The  Intruder 
illustrates  also  Maeterlinck's  use  of  symbols.  The  Grand- 
father in  the  play  is  blind,  for  instance;  blind  characters  in 
Maeterlinck's  plays  are  symbols  of  the  spiritual  blindness  of  the 
human  race;  the  gardener  sharpening  his  scythe  stands  for 
death ;  the  mysterious  quenching  of  the  lamp — it  may  have  gone 
out  because  there  was  no  oil  in  it — signifies  the  going  out  of  life. 

The  problem  in  the  staging  of  this  play  is  the  "  creation  of 
a  mood  or  atmosphere,  rather  than  the  unfolding  of  an 
action."  One  of  the  settings  used  in  this  country  is  here 
reproduced.  It  was  designed  for  the  Arts  &  Crafts  Theatre 
of  Detroit.  Sheldon  Cheney,  whose  description  of  Sam 
Hume's  plastic  units  for  the  stage  of  this  Little  Theatre  is 
given  in  the  Introduction  on  page  xxxi,  has  described  the  re- 
arrangement of  this  equipment  and  the  additions  that  can  be 
made  to  it  for  the  production  of  this  play  as  follows:  "For 
Maeterlinck's  The  Intruder,  which  demanded  a  room  in  an 
old  chateau,  one  important  addition  was  made,  a  flat  with  a 
door.  At  the  left  was  the  arch,  then  a  pylon  and  curtain,  and 
then  the  Gothic  window  with  practicable  casements  added. 
The  rest  of  the  back  wall  was  made  up  of  the  new  door-piece 
flanked  by  curtains,  while  the  third  wall  consisted  of  two  pylons 
and  curtains.  Stairs  and  platforms  were  utilized  before  the 
window  and  under  the  arch.  A  small  two-stair  unit  was  added, 
leading  to  the  new  door.  This  arrangement  afforded  exactly 
that  suggestion  of  spaciousness  and  mystery  for  which  the  play 
calls."  When  the  play  was  given  at  the  Independent  Theatre 
in  London  in  1895,  it  was  played  behind  a  blue  gauze  curtain. 

On  one  of  Maeterlinck's  visits  to  London,  he  was  taken  by 


THE  INTRUDER  267 

Alfred  Sutro,  the  dramatist,  to  call  on  Barrie  in  his  flat  at  the 
Adelphi.  Maeterlinck  was  asked  to  write  his  name  on  the 
whitewashed  wall  of  Barrie's  studio.  He  did  so  and  added 
above  the  signature:  "  Au  pere  de  Peter  Pan,  et  au  grandpere 
de  L'Oiseau  Bleu'' 


THE  INTRUDER 

CHARACTERS 

The  Three  Daughters. 
The  Grandfather. 
The  Father. 
The  Uncle. 
The  Servant. 

A  dimly  lighted  room  in  an  old  country-house.  A  door  on  the 
right,  a  door  on  the  left,  and  a  small  concealed  door  in  a 
corner.  At  the  back,  stained-glass  windows,  in  which  the 
color  green  predominates,  and  a  glass  door  opening  on  to 
a  terrace.    A  Dutch  clock  in  one  corner.    A  lamp  lighted. 

The  Three  Daughters.     Come  here,  grandfather.     Sit 
down  under  the  lamp. 

The  Grandfather.     There  does  not  seem  to  me  to  be 
much  light  here. 

The  Father.     Shall  we  go  on  to  the  terrace,  or  stay  in 
this  room? 

The  Uncle.    Would  it  not  be  better  to  stay  here?     It  has 
rained  the  w^hole  week,  and  the  nights  are  damp  and  cold. 

The  Eldest  Daughter.     Still  the  stars  are  shining. 

The  Uncle.    Ah!  stars — that's  nothing. 

The  Grandfather.    We  had  better  stay  here.    One  never 
knows  what  may  happen. 

The  Father.     There  is  no  longer  any  cause  for  anxiety. 
The  danger  is  past,  and  she  is  saved.    .    .    . 

The  Grandfather.   I  fancy  she  is  not  going  on  well.  .  .  . 

The  Father.    Why  do  you  say  that? 

The  Grandfather.     I  have  heard  her  speak. 

The    Father.      But   the    doctors    assure   us   we    may   be 
easy.   ... 

The  Uncle.    You  know  quite  well  that  your  father-in-law 
likes  to  alarm  us  needlessly. 

268 


THE  INTRUDER  269 

The  Grandfather.  I  don't  look  at  these  things  as  you 
others  do. 

The  Uncle.  You  ought  to  rely  on  us,  then,  who  can  see. 
She  looked  very  well  this  afternoon.  She  is  sleeping  quietly 
now;  and  we  are  not  going  to  spoil,  without  any  reason,  the 
first  comfortable  evening  that  luck  has  thrown  in  our  way. 
...  It  seems  to  me  we  have  a  perfect  right  to  be  easy,  and 
even  to  laugh  a  little,  this  evening,  without  apprehension. 

The  Father.  That's  true;  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  felt 
at  home  with  my  family  since  this  terrible  confinement. 

The  Uncle.  When  once  illness  has  come  into  a  house,  it 
is  as  though  a  stranger  had  forced  himself  into  the  family 
circle. 

The  Father.  And  then  j^ou  understood,  too,  that  you 
should  count  on  no  one  outside  the  family. 

The  Uncle.    You  are  quite  right. 

The  Grandfather.  Why  could  I  not  see  my  poor 
daughter  to-day? 

The  Uncle.    You  know  quite  well — the  doctor  forbade  it. 

The  Grandfather.    I  do  not  know  what  to  think.   .    .    . 

The  Uncle.     It  is  absurd  to  worry. 

The  Grandfather  {pointing  to  the  door  on  the  left].  She 
cannot  hear  us? 

The  Father.  We  shall  not  talk  too  loud;  besides,  the  door 
is  very  thick,  and  the  Sister  of  Mercy  is  with  her,  and  she  is 
sure  to  warn  us  if  we  are  making  too  much  noise. 

The  Grandfather  {pointing  to  the  door  on  the  right]. 
He  cannot  hear  us? 

The  Father.    No,  no. 

The  Grandfather.    He  is  asleep? 

The  Father.     I  suppose  so. 

The  Grandfather.    Someone  had  better  go  and  see. 

The  Uncle.  The  little  one  would  cause  me  more  anxiety 
than  your  wife.  It  is  now  several  weeks  since  he  was  born, 
and  he  has  scarcely  stirred.  He  has  not  cried  once  all  the 
time !    He  is  like  a  wax  doll. 

The  Grandfather.  I  think  he  will  be  deaf — dumb  too, 
perhaps — the  usual  result  of  a  marriage  between  cousins.  .  .  . 
[A  reproving  silence.] 

The  Father.  I  could  almost  wish  him  ill  for  the  suffer- 
ing he  has  caused  his  mother. 


270  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Uncle.  Do  be  reasonable;  it  is  not  the  poor  little 
thing's  fault.     He  is  quite  alone  in  the  room? 

The  Father.  Yes;  the  doctor  does  not  wish  him  to  stay 
in  his  mother's  room  any  longer. 

The  Uncle.    But  the  nurse  is  with  him? 

The  Father.  No;  she  has  gone  to  rest  a  little;  she  has 
well  deserved  it  these  last  few  days.  Ursula,  just  go  and  see 
if  he  is  asleep. 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  Yes,  father.  [The  Three 
Sisters  get  up,  and  go  into  the  room  on  the  right,  hand  in 
hand.] 

The  Father.    When  will  your  sister  come? 

The  Uncle.    I  think  she  will  come  about  nine. 

The  Father.  It  is  past  nine.  I  hope  she  will  come  this 
evening,  my  wife  is  so  anxious  to  see  her. 

The  Uncle.  She  is  certain  to  come.  This  will  be  the  first 
time  she  has  been  here? 

The  Father.    She  has  never  been  into  the  house. 

The  Uncle.  It  is  very  difficult  for  her  to  leave  her  convent. 

The  Father.     Will  she  be  alone? 

The  Uncle.  I  expect  one  of  the  nuns  will  come  with  her. 
They  are  not  allowed  to  go  out  alone. 

The  Father.     But  she  is  the  Superior. 

The  Uncle.    The  rule  is  the  same  for  all. 

The  Grandfather.    Do  you  not  feel  anxious? 

The  Uncle.  Why  should  we  feel  anxious?  What's  the 
good  of  harping  on  that?    There  is  nothing  more  to  fear. 

The  Grandfather.    Your  sister  is  older  than  you? 

The  Uncle.    She  is  the  eldest  of  us  all. 

The  Grandfather.  I  do  not  know  what  ails  me;  I  feel 
uneasy.    I  wish  your  sister  were  here. 

The  Uncle.     She  will  come;  she  promised  to. 

The  Grandfather.  I  wish  this  evening  were  over! 
[The  Three  Daughters  come  in  again.] 

The  Father.    He  is  asleep? 

The  Eldest  Daughter.    Yes,  father;  very  sound. 

The  Uncle.    What  shall  we  do  while  we  are  waiting? 

The  Grandfather.    Waiting  for  what? 

The  Uncle.    Waiting  for  our  sister. 

The  Father.    You  see  nothing  coming,  Ursula? 

The  Eldest  Daughter  [at  the  window].  Nothing,  father. 


THE  INTRUDER  271 

The   Father.     Not   in   the    avenue?      Can   you   see    the 
avenue  ? 

The  Daughter.     Yes,  father;  it  is  moonlight,  and  I  can 
see  the  avenue  as  far  as  the  cypress  wood. 

The  Grandfather.    And  you  do  not  see  anyone? 

The  Daughter.    No  one,  grandfather. 

The  Uncle.    What  sort  of  a  night  is  it? 

The   Daughter.     Very   fine.      Do   you   hear   the   night- 
ingales ? 

The  Uncle.    Yes,  yes. 

The  Daughter.    A  little  w^ind  is  rising  in  the  avenue. 

The  Grandfather.    A  little  wind  in  the  avenue? 

The  Daughter.     Yes;  the  trees  are  trembling  a  little. 

The  Uncle.     I  am  surprised  that  my  sister  is  not  here  yet. 

The  Grandfather.     I  cannot  hear  the  nightingales  any 
longer. 

The  Daughter.     I  think  someone  has  come  into  the  gar- 
den, grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.    Who  is  it? 

The  Daughter.    I  do  not  know;  I  can  see  no  one. 

The  Uncle.     Because  there  is  no  one  there. 

The  Daughter.  There  must  be  someone  in  the  garden; 
the  nightingales  have  suddenly  ceased  singing. 

The  Grandfather.    But  I  do  not  hear  anyone  coming. 

The  Daughter.  Someone  must  be  passing  by  the  pond, 
because  the  swans  are  scared. 

Another  Daughter.  All  the  fishes  in  the  pond  are  diving 
suddenly. 

The  Father.    You  cannot  see  anyone? 

The  Daughter.    No  one,  father. 

The  Father.    But  the  pond  lies  in  the  moonlight.   .    .    . 

The  Daughter.    Yes;  I  can  see  that  the  swans  are  scared. 

The  Uncle.  I  am  sure  it  is  my  sister  who  is  scaring  them. 
She  must  have  come  in  by  the  little  gate. 

The  Father.  I  cannot  understand  why  the  dogs  do  not 
bark. 

The  Daughter.  I  can  see  the  watch-dog  right  at  the  back 
of  his  kennel.    The  swans  are  crossing  to  the  other  bank !  .   .   . 

The  Uncle.  They  are  afraid  of  my  sister.  I  will  go  and 
see.  [He  calls.]  Sister!  sister!  Is  that  you?  .  .  .  There 
is  no  one  there. 


272  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Daughter.  I  am  sure  that  someone  has  come  into 
the  garden.     You  will  see. 

The  Uncle.    But  she  would  answer  me! 

The  Grandfather.  Are  not  the  nightingales  beginning  to 
sing  again,  Ursula? 

The  Daughter.    I  cannot  hear  one  anywhere. 

The  Grandfather.    And  yet  there  is  no  noise. 

The  Father.    There  is  a  silence  of  the  grave. 

The  Grandfather.  It  must  be  some  stranger  that  scares 
them,  for  if  it  were  one  of  the  family  they  would  not  be 
silent. 

The  Uncle.  How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  discuss 
these  nightingales. 

The  Grandfather.    Are  all  the  windows  open,  Ursula? 

The  Daughter.     The  glass  door  is  open,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  cold  is  pene- 
trating into  the  room. 

The  Daughter.  There  is  a  little  wind  in  the  garden, 
grandfather,  and  the  rose-leaves  are  falling. 

The  Father.    Well,  shut  the  door.     It  is  late. 

The  Daughter.    Yes,  father.  ...  I  cannot  shut  the  door. 

The  Two  Other  Daughters.    We  cannot  shut  the  door. 

The  Grandfather.  Why.  what  is  the  matter  with  the 
door,  my  children? 

The  Uncle.  You  need  not  say  that  in  such  an  extraor- 
dinary voice.     I  will  go  and  help  them. 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  We  cannot  manage  to  shut  it 
quite. 

The  Uncle.  It  is  because  of  the  damp.  Let  us  all  push 
together.     There  must  be  something  in  the  way. 

The  Father.    The  carpenter  will  set  it  right  to-morrow. 

The  Grandfather.     Is  the  carpenter  coming  to-morrow? 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  grandfather;  he  is  coming  to  do  some 
work  in  the  cellar. 

The  Grandfather.    He  will  make  a  noise  in  the  house. 

The  Daughter.  I  will  tell  him  to  work  quietly.  [Sud- 
denly the  sound  of  a  scythe  being  sharpened  is  heard  outside.] 

The  Grandfather  [with  a  shudder].     Oh! 

The  Uncle.    What  is  that? 

The  Daughter.  I  don't  quite  know;  I  think  it  is  the  gar- 
dener.    I  cannot  quite  see ;  he  is  in  the  shadow  of  the  house. 


THE  INTRUDER  273 

The  Father.    It  is  the  gardener  going  to  mow. 

The  Uncle.     He  mows  by  night? 

The  Father.  Is  not  to-morrow  Sunday? — Yes. — I  noticed 
that  the  grass  was  very  long  round  the  house. 

The  Grandfather.  It  seems  to  me  that  his  scythe  makes 
as  much  noise    .    .    . 

The  Daughter.     He  is  mowing  near  the  house. 

The  Grandfather.     Can  you  see  him,  Ursula? 

The  Daughter.    No,  grandfather.    He  stands  in  the  dark. 

The  Grandfather.  I  am  afraid  he  will  wake  my  daughter. 

The  Uncle.    We  can  scarcely  hear  him. 

The  Grandfather.  It  sounds  to  me  as  if  he  were  mowing 
inside  the  house. 

The  Uncle.  The  invalid  will  not  hear  it;  there  is  no 
danger. 

The  Father.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  lamp  is  not  burning 
well  this  evening. 

The  Uncle.     It  wants  filling. 

The  Father.  I  saw  it  filled  this  morning.  It  has  burnt 
badly  since  the  window  was  shut. 

The  Uncle.     I  fancy  the  chimney  is  dirty. 

The  Father.     It  will  burn  better  presently. 

The  Daughter.  Grandfather  is  asleep.  He  has  not  slept 
for  three  nights. 

The  Father.     He  has  been  so  much  worried. 

The  Uncle.  He  always  worries  too  much.  At  times  he 
will  not  listen  to  reason. 

The  Father.    It  is  quite  excusable  at  his  age. 

The  Uncle.    God  knows  what  we  shall  be  like  at  his  age! 

The  Father.     He  is  nearly  eighty. 

The  Uncle.    Then  he  has  a  right  to  be  strange. 

The  Father.    He  is  like  all  blind  people. 

The  Uncle.    They  think  too  much. 

The  Father.    They  have  too  much  time  to  spare. 

The  Uncle.    They  have  nothing  else  to  do. 

The  Father.    And,  besides,  they  have  no  distractions. 

The  Uncle.    That  must  be  terrible. 

The  Father.    Apparently  one  gets  used  to  it. 

The  Uncle.     I  cannot  imagine  it. 

The  Father.    They  are  certainly  to  be  pitied. 

The  Uncle.    Not  to  know  where  one  is,  not  to  know  where 


274  THE  INTRUDER 

one  has  come  from,  not  to  know  whither  one  is  going,  not  to 
be  able  to  distinguish  midday  from  midnight,  or  summer  from 
winter — and  always  darkness,  darkness!  I  would  rather  not 
live.     Is  it  absolutely  incurable? 

The  Father.    Apparently  so. 

The  Uncle.    But  he  is  not  absolutely  blind? 

The  Father.    He  can  perceive  a  strong  light. 

The  Uncle.    Let  us  take  care  of  our  poor  eyes. 

The  Father.    He  often  has  strange  ideas. 

The  Uncle.    At  times  he  is  not  at  all  amusing. 

The  Father.     He  says  absolutely  everything  he  thinks. 

The  Uncle.    But  he  was  not  always  like  this? 

The  Father.  No;  once  he  was  as  rational  as  we  are;  he 
never  said  anything  extraordinary.  I  am  afraid  Ursula  en- 
courages him  a  little  too  much;  she  answers  all  his  ques- 
tions.  .    ,    . 

The  Uncle.  It  would  be  better  not  to  answer  them.  It's 
a  mistaken  kindness  to  him.     [Ten  o'clock  strikes.] 

The  Grandfather  [waking  up].  Am  I  facing  the  glass 
door? 

The  Daughter.    You  have  had  a  nice  sleep,  grandfather? 

The  Grandfather.    Am  I  facing  the  glass  door? 

The  Daughter.    Yes,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.    There  is  nobody  at  the  glass  door? 

The  Daughter.    No,  grandfather;  I  do  not  see  anyone. 

The  Grandfather.  I  thought  someone  was  waiting.  No 
one  has  come? 

The  Daughter.    No  one,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather  [to  the  Uncle  and  Father].  And 
your  sister  has  not  come? 

The  Uncle.  It  is  too  late;  she  will  not  come  now.  It  is 
not  nice  of  her. 

The  Father.  I'm  beginning  to  be  anxious  about  her.  [A 
noise,  as  of  someone  coming  into  the  house.] 

The  Uncle.    She  is  here!    Did  you  hear? 

The  Father.     Yes;  someone  has  come  in  at  the  basement. 

The  Uncle.    It  must  be  our  sister.     I  recognized  her  step. 

The  Grandfather.    I  heard  slow  footsteps. 

The  Father.    She  came  in  very  quietly. 

The  Uncle.     She  knows  there  is  an  invalid. 

The  Grandfather.    I  hear  nothing  now. 


THE  INTRUDER  275 

The  Uncle.  She  will  come  up  directly;  they  will  tell  her 
we  are  here. 

The  Father.    I  am  glad  she  has  come. 

The  Uncle.    I  was  sure  she  would  come  this  evening. 

The  Grandfather.    She  is  a  very  long  time  coming  up. 

The  Uncle.     However,  it  must  be  she. 

The  Father.     We  are  not  expecting  any  other  visitors. 

The  Grandfather.  I  cannot  hear  any  noise  in  the  base- 
ment. 

The  Father.  I  will  call  the  servant.  We  shall  know  how 
things  stand.     [He  pulls  a  bell-rope.] 

The  Grandfather.  I  can  hear  a  noise  on  the  stairs  already. 

The  Father.     It  is  the  servant  coming  up. 

The  Grandfather.  It  sounds  to  me  as  if  she  were  not 
alone. 

The  Father.    She  is  coming  up  slowly.   .    .    . 

The  Grandfather.    I  hear  your  sister's  step! 

The  Father.    I  can  only  hear  the  servant. 

The  Grandfather.  It  is  your  sister!  It  is  your  sister! 
[There  is  a  knock  at  the  little  door.\ 

The  Uncle.    She  is  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  back  stairs. 

The  Father.  I  will  go  and  open  myself.  [He  partly  opens 
the  little  door;  The  Servant  remains  outside  in  the  opening.] 
Where  are  you  ? 

The  Servant.     Here,  sir. 

The  Grandfather.    Your  sister  is  at  the  door? 

The  Uncle.    I  can  only  see  the  servant. 

The  Father.  It  is  only  the  servant.  [To  The  Servant.] 
Who  was  that,  that  came  into  the  house? 

The  Servant.     Came  into  the  house? 

The  Father.    Yes;  someone  came  in  just  now? 

The  Servant.    No  one  came  in,  sir. 

The  Grandfather.    Who  is  it  sighing  like  that? 

The  Uncle.     It  is  the  servant;  she  is  out  of  breath. 

The  Grandfather.     Is  she  crying? 

The  Uncle.    No;  why  should  she  be  crying? 

The  Father  [to  The  Servant].  No  one  came  in  just 
now? 

The  Servant.    No,  sir. 

The  Father.    But  we  heard  someone  open  the  door! 

The  Servant.    It  was  I  shutting  the  door. 


276  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Father.    It  was  open? 

The  Servant.    Yes,  sir. 

The  Father.    Why  was  it  open  at  this  time  of  night? 

The  Servant.     I  do  not  know,  sir.     I  had  shut  it  myself. 

The  Father.    Then  who  was  it  that  opened  it? 

The  Servant.  I  do  not  know,  sir.  Someone  must  have 
gone  out  after  me,  sir.   .    .    . 

The  Father.  You  must  be  careful. — Don't  push  the  door; 
you  know  what  a  noise  it  makes! 

The  Servant.    But,  sir,  I  am  not  touching  the  door. 

The  Father.  But  you  are.  You  are  pushing  as  if  you 
were  trying  to  get  into  the  room. 

The  Servant.  But,  sir,  I  am  three  yards  away  from  the 
door. 

The  Father.     Don't  talk  so  loud.   ... 

The  Grandfather.    Are  they  putting  out  the  light? 

The  Eldest  Daughter.    No,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.  It  seems  to  me  it  has  grown  pitch 
dark  all  at  once. 

The  Father  [to  The  Servant].  You  can  go  down  again 
now;  but  do  not  make  so  much  noise  on  the  stairs. 

The  Servant.     I  did  not  make  any  noise  on  the  stairs. 

The  Father.  I  tell  you  that  you  did  make  a  noise.  Go 
down  quietly;  you  will  wake  your  mistress.  And  if  anyone 
comes  now,  say  that  we  are  not  at  home. 

The  Uncle.    Yes;  say  that  we  are  not  at  home. 

The  Grandfather  [shuddering].  You  must  not  say 
that! 

The  Father.   .    .    .   Except  to  my  sister  and  the  doctor. 

The  Uncle.    When  will  the  doctor  come? 

The  Father.  He  will  not  be  able  to  come  before  mid- 
night.    [He  shuts  the  door.     A  clock  is  heard  striking  eleven.] 

The  Grandfather.     She  has  come  in? 

The  Father.    Who? 

The  Grandfather.    The  servant. 

The  Father.    No,  she  has  gone  downstairs. 

The  Grandfather.  I  thought  that  she  was  sitting  at  the 
table. 

The  Uncle.    The  servant? 

The  Grandfather.    Yes. 

The  Uncle.    That  would  complete  one's  happiness! 


THE  INTRUDER  277 

The  Grandfather.    No  one  has  come  into  the  room? 

The  Father.    No;  no  one  has  come  in. 

The  Grandfather.    And  your  sister  is  not  here? 

The  Uncle.    Our  sister  has  not  come. 

The  Grandfather.    You  want  to  deceive  me. 

The  Uncle.    Deceive  you? 

The  Grandfather.  Ursula,  tell  me  the  truth,  for  the  love 
of  God ! 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  Grandfather!  Grandfather!  what 
is  the  matter  with  you? 

The  Grandfather.  Something  has  happened!  I  am  sure 
my  daughter  is  worse !   .    .    . 

The  Uncle.    Are  you  dreaming? 

The  Grandfather.  You  do  not  want  to  tell  me!  .  .  . 
I  can  see  quite  well  there  is  something.   .    .    . 

The  Uncle.  In  that  case  you  can  see  better  than  we 
can. 

The  Grandfather.    Ursula,  tell  me  the  truth! 

The  Daughter.  But  we  have  told  you  the  truth,  grand- 
father! 

The  Grandfather.  You  do  not  speak  in  your  ordinary 
voice. 

The  Father.    That  is  because  you  frighten  her. 

The  Grandfather.    Your  voice  is  changed  too. 

The  Father.  You  are  going  mad !  [He  and  The  Uncle 
make  signs  to  each  other  to  signify  The  Grandfather  has 
lost  his  reason.^ 

The  Grandfather.  I  can  hear  quite  well  that  you  are 
afraid. 

The  Father.    But  what  should  we  be  afraid  of? 

The  Grandfather.    Why  do  you  want  to  deceive  me? 

The  Uncle.     Who  is  thinking  of  deceiving  you? 

The  Grandfather.    Why  have  you  put  out  the  light? 

The  Uncle.  But  the  light  has  not  been  put  out;  there  is 
as  much  light  as  there  was  before. 

The  Daughter.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  lamp  has  gone 
down. 

The  Father.    I  see  as  well  now  as  ever. 

The  Grandfather.  I  have  millstones  on  my  eyes!  Tell 
me,  girls,  what  is  going  on  here!  Tell  me,  for  the  love  of 
God,  you  who  can  see !     I  am  here,  all  alone,  in  darkness  with- 


278  THE  INTRUDER 

out  end!  I  do  not  know  who  seats  himself  beside  me!  I  do 
not  know  what  is  happening  a  yard  from  me!  .  .  .  Why 
were  you  talking  under  your  breath  just  now? 

The  Father.    No  one  was  talking  under  his  breath. 

The  Grandfather.  You  did  talk  in  a  low  voice  at  the 
door. 

The  Father.    You  heard  all  I  said. 

The  Grandfather.  You  brought  someone  into  the 
room!   .    .    . 

The  Father.     But  I  tell  you  no  one  has  come  in! 

The  Grandfather.  Is  it  your  sister  or  a  priest? — You 
should  not  try  to  deceive  me. — Ursula,  who  was  it  that 
came  in? 

The  Daughter.     No  one,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.  You  must  not  try  to  deceive  me;  I 
know  what  I  know. — How  many  of  us  are  there  here? 

The  Daughter.  There  are  six  of  us  round  the  table, 
grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.    You  are  all  round  the  table? 

The  Daughter.    Yes,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.    You  are  there,  Paul? 

The  Father.    Yes. 

The  Grandfather.    You  are  there,  Oliver? 

The  Uncle.  Yes,  of  course  I  am  here,  in  my  usual  place, 
That's  not  alarming,  is  it? 

The  Grandfather.     You  are  there,  Genevieve? 

One  of  the  Daughters.     Yes,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.    You  are  there,  Gertrude? 

Another  Daughter.     Yes,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.    You  are  here,  Ursula? 

The  Eldest  Daughter.     Yes,  grandfather;  next  to  you. 

The  Grandfather.    And  who  is  that  sitting  there? 

The  Daughter.  Where  do  you  mean,  grandfather? — 
There  is  no  one. 

The  Grandfather.    There,  there — in  the  midst  of  us! 

The  Daughter.     But  there  is  no  one,  grandfather! 

The  Father.    We  tell  you  there  is  no  one! 

The  Grandfather.    But  you  cannot  see — any  of  you! 

The  Uncle.    Pshaw!    You  are  joking? 

The  Grandfather.  I  do  not  feel  inclined  for  joking,  I 
can  assure  you. 


THE  INTRUDER  279 

The  Uncle.    Then  believe  those  who  can  see. 

The  Grandfather  [undecidedly].  I  thought  there  was 
someone.    ...    I  believe  I  shall  not  live  long.    .    .    . 

The  Uncle.  Why  should  we  deceive  you?  What  use 
would  there  be  in  that? 

The  Father.  It  would  be  our  duty  to  tell  you  the 
truth.   ,    .    . 

The  Uncle.  What  would  be  the  good  of  deceiving  each 
other? 

The  Father.    You  could  not  live  in  error  long. 

The  Grandfather  [trying  to  rise].  I  should  like  to  pierce 
this  darkness!    .    .    . 

The  Father.    Where  do  you  want  to  go? 

The  Grandfather.    Over  there.   .    .    . 

The  Father.    Don't  be  so  anxious.   .    .    . 

The  Uncle.     You  are  strange  this  evening. 

The  Grandfather.  It  is  all  of  you  who  seem  to  me  to 
be  strange! 

The  Father.     Do  you  want  anything?  .    .    . 

The  Grandfather.     I  do  not  know  what  ails  me. 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  Grandfather!  grandfather!  What 
do  you  want,  grandfather? 

The  Grandfather.  Give  me  your  little  hands,  my  chil- 
dren. 

The  Three  Daughters.    Yes,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.  Why  are  you  all  three  trembling, 
girls? 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  We  are  scarcely  trembling  at  all, 
grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.     I  fancy  you  are  all  three  pale. 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  It  is  late,  grandfather,  and  we 
are  tired. 

The  Father.  You  must  go  to  bed,  and  grandfather  him- 
self would  do  well  to  take  a  little  rest. 

The  Grandfather.    I  could  not  sleep  to-night! 

The  Uncle.    We  will  wait  for  the  doctor. 

The  Grandfather.     Prepare  me  for  the  truth. 

The  Uncle.     But  there  is  no  truth! 

The  Grandfather.    Then  I  do  not  know  what  there  is! 

The  Uncle.    I  tell  you  there  is  nothing  at  all! 

The  Grandfather.    I  wish  I  could  see  my  poor  daughter! 


28o  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Father.  But  you  know  quite  well  it  is  impossible; 
she  must  not  be  awaked  unnecessarily. 

The  Uncle.    You  will  see  her  to-morrow. 

The  Grandfather.    There  is  no  sound  in  her  room. 

The  Uncle.     I  should  be  uneasy  if  I  heard  any  sound. 

The  Grandfather.  It  is  a  very  long  time  since  I  saw  my 
daughter!  ...  I  took  her  hands  yesterday  evening,  but  I 
could  not  see  her!  ...  I  do  not  know  what  has  become  of 
her!  ...  I  do  not  know  how  she  is.  ...  I  do  not  know< 
what  her  face  is  like  now.  .  .  .  She  must  have  changed  these , 
weeks!  ...  I  felt  the  little  bones  of  her  cheeks  under  my 
hands.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  but  the  darkness  between  her 
and  me,  and  the  rest  of  you!  ...  I  cannot  go  on  living  like 
this  .  .  .  this  is  not  living.  .  .  .  You  sit  there,  all  of  you, 
looking  with  open  eyes  at  my  dead  eyes,  and  not  one  of  you 
has  pity  on  me!  .  .  .  I  do  not  know  what  ails  me.  .  .  .  No 
one  tells  me  what  ought  to  be  told  me.  .  .  .  And  everything 
is  terrifying  when  one's  dreams  dwell  upon  it.  .  .  .  But  why 
are  you  not  speaking? 

The  Uncle.  What  should  we  say,  since  you  will  not  be- 
lieve us? 

The  Grandfather.  You  are  afraid  of  betraying  your- 
selves ! 

The  Father.    Come  now,  be  rational! 

The  Grandfather.  You  have  been  hiding  something  from 
me  for  a  long  time!  .  .  .  Something  has  happened  in  the 
house,  .  .  .  But  I  am  beginning  to  understand  now.  .  .  . 
You  have  been  deceiving  me  too  long! — You  fancy  that  I  shall 
never  know  anything? — There  are  moments  when  I  am  less 
blind  than  you,  you  know!  ...  Do  you  think  I  have  not 
heard  you  whispering — for  days  and  days — as  if  you  were  in 
the  house  of  someone  who  had  been  hanged — I  dare  not  say 
what  I  know  this  evening.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  know  the  truth! 
...  I  shall  wait  for  you  to  tell  me  the  truth;  but  I  have 
known  it  for  a  long  time,  in  spite  of  you! — And  now,  I  feel 
that  you  are  all  paler  than  the  dead! 

The  Three  Daughters.  Grandfather!  grandfather!  What 
is  the  matter,  grandfather? 

The  Grandfather.  It  is  not  you  that  I  am  speaking  of, 
girls.  No,  it  is  not  you  that  I  am  speaking  of.  ...  I  know 
quite  well  you  would  tell  me  the  truth — if  they  were  not  by! 


THE  INTRUDER  281 

.  .  .  And  besides,  I  feel  sure  that  they  are  deceiving  you  as 
well.  .  .  .  You  will  see,  children — you  will  see!  .  .  .  Do 
not  I  hear  you  all  sobbing? 

The  Father.    Is  my  wife  really  so  ill? 

The  Grandfather.  It  is  no  good  trying  to  deceive  me  any 
longer;  it  is  too  late  now,  and  I  know  the  truth  better  than 
you !   .    .    . 

The  Uncle.    But  we  are  not  blind ;  we  are  not. 

The  Father.  Would  you  like  to  go  into  your  daughter's 
room?  This  misunderstanding  must  be  put  an  end  to. — 
Would  you? 

The  Grandfather  [becoming  suddenly  undecided].  No, 
no,  not  now — not  yet. 

The  Uncle.    You  see,  you  are  not  reasonable. 

The  Grandfather.  One  never  knows  how  much  a  man 
has  been  unable  to  express  in  his  life!  .  .  .  Who  made  that 
noise? 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  It  is  the  lamp  flickering,  grand- 
father. 

The  Grandfather.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  very  unsteady — 
very! 

The  Daughter.    It  is  the  cold  wind  troubling  it.  .   .   . 

The  Uncle.    There  is  no  cold  wind,  the  windows  are  shut. 

The  Daughter.    I  think  it  is  going  out. 

The  Father.    There  is  no  more  oil. 

The  Daughter.    It  has  gone  right  out. 

The  Father.    We  cannot  stay  like  this  in  the  dark. 

The  Uncle.    Why  not? — I  am  quite  accustomed  to  it. 

The  Father.    There  is  a  light  in  my  wife's  room. 

The  Uncle.  We  will  take  it  from  there  presently,  when 
the  doctor  has  been. 

The  Father.  Well,  we  can  see  enough  here;  there  is  the 
light  from  outside. 

The  Grandfather.     Is  it  light  outside? 

The  Father.    Lighter  than  here. 

The  Uncle.  For  my  part,  I  would  as  soon  talk  in  the  dark. 

The  Father.     So  would  I.     [Silence.] 

The  Grandfather.  It  seems  to  me  the  clock  makes  a  great 
deal  of  noise.   .    .    . 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  That  is  because  we  are  not  talk- 
ing any  more,  grandfather. 


282  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Grandfather.    But  why  are  you  all  silent? 

The  Uncle.  What  do  you  want  us  to  talk  about? — You 
are  really  very  peculiar  to-night. 

The  Grandfather.    Is  it  very  dark  in  this  room? 

The  Uncle.    There  is  not  much  light.     [Silence.] 

The  Grandfather.  I  do  not  feel  well,  Ursula;  open  the 
window  a  little. 

The  Father.  Yes,  child ;  open  the  window  a  little.  I 
begin  to  feel  the  want  of  air  myself.  [The  girl  opens  the 
window.] 

The  Uncle.  I  really  believe  we  have  stayed  shut  up  too 
long. 

The  Grandfather.    Is  the  window  open? 

The  Daughter.    Yes,  grandfather;  it  is  wide  open. 

The  Grandfather.  One  would  not  have  thought  it  was 
open;  there  is  not  a  sound  outside. 

The  Daughter.  No,  grandfather;  there  is  not  the  slightest 
sound. 

The  Father.    The  silence  is  extraordinary! 

The  Daughter.    One  could  hear  an  angel  tread! 

The  Uncle.    That  is  why  I  do  not  like  the  country. 

The  Grandfather.  I  wish  I  could  hear  some  sound. 
What  o'clock  is  it,  Ursula? 

The  Daughter.  It  will  soon  be  midnight,  grandfather. 
[Here  The  Uncle  begins  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room.] 

The  Grandfather.  Who  is  that  walking  round  us  like 
that? 

The  Uncle.  Only  I!  only  I!  Do  not  be  frightened!  I 
want  to  walk  about  a  little.  [Silence.] — But  I  am  going  to 
sit  down  again; — I  cannot  see  where  I  am  going.      [Silence.] 

The  Grandfather.     I  wish  I  were  out  of  this  place! 

The  Daughter.  Where  would  you  like  to  go,  grand- 
father ? 

The  Grandfather.  I  do  not  know  where — into  another 
room,  no  matter  where!  no  matter  where! 

The  Father.     Where  could  we  go? 

The  Uncle.  It  is  too  late  to  go  anywhere  else.  [Silence. 
They  are  sitting,  motionless,  round  the  table.] 

The  Grandfather.    What  is  that  I  hear,  Ursula? 

The  Daughter.  Nothing,  grandfather;  it  is  the  leaves 
ialling. — Yes,  it  is  the  leaves  falling  on  the  terrace. 


THE  INTRUDER  283 

The  Grandfather.    Go  and  shut  the  window,  Ursula. 

The  Daughter,  Yes,  grandfather.  [She  shuts  the  win- 
dow,  comes  back,  and  sits  down.] 

The  Grandfather.  I  am  cold.  [Silence.  The  Three 
Sisters  kiss  each  other.]     What  is  that  I  hear  now? 

The  Father.     It  is  the  three  sisters  kissing  each  other. 

The  Uncle.  It  seems  to  me  they  are  very  pale  this  evening. 
[Silence.] 

The  Grandfather.    What  is  that  I  hear  now,  Ursula? 

The  Daughter.  Nothing,  grandfather;  it  is  the  clasping 
of  my  hands.     [Silence.] 

The  Grandfather.    And  that?  .    .    . 

The  Daughter.  I  do  not  know,  grandfather  .  .  .  per- 
haps my  sisters  are  trembling  a  little?   .    .    . 

The  Grandfather.  I  am  afraid,  too,  my  children.  [Here 
a  ray  of  moonlight  penetrates  through  a  corner  of  the  stained 
glass,  and  throws  strange  gleams  here  and  there  in  the  room. 
A  clock  strikes  midnight;  at  the  last  stroke  there  is  a  very  vague 
sound,  as  of  someone  rising  in  haste.] 

The  Grandfather  [shuddering  with  peculiar  horror]. 
Who  is  that  who  got  up? 

The  Uncle.    No  one  got  up! 

The  Father.    I  did  not  get  up! 

The  Three  Daughters.     Nor  I! — Nor  I! — Nor  I! 

The  Grandfather.     Someone  got  up  from  the  table! 

The  Uncle.  Light  the  lamp!  .  .  .  [Cries  of  terror  are 
suddenly  heard  from  the  child's  room,  on  the  right;  these  cries 
continue,  with  gradations  of  horror,  until  the  end  of  the  scene.] 

The  Father.    Listen  to  the  child! 

The  Uncle.     He  has  never  cried  before! 

The  Father.    Let  us  go  and  see  him! 

The  Uncle.  The  light!  The  light!  [At  this  moment, 
quick  and  heavy  steps  are  heard  in  the  room  on  the  left. — Then 
a  deathly  silence. — They  listen  in  mute  terror,  until  the  door 
of  the  room  opens  slowly,  the  light  from  it  is  cast  into  the  room 
where  they  are  sitting,  and  the  Sister  of  Mercy  appears  on  the 
threshold,  in  her  black  garments,  and  bows  as  she  makes  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  to  announce  the  death  of  the  wife.  They 
understand,  and,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation  and  fright, 
silently  enter  the  chamber  of  death,  while  The  Uncle  politely 
steps  aside  on  the  threshold  to  let  the  three  girls  pass.     The 


284  THE  INTRUDER 

blind  man,  left  alone,  gets  up,  agitated,  and  feels  his  way  round 
the  table  in  the  darkness.] 

The  Grandfather.     Where  are  you  going? — Where  are 
you  going? — The  girls  have  left  me  all  alone! 


[the  curtain.] 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  * 
A  DRAMA  IN  ONE  ACT 

By 

JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY 


♦Copyright,  1917,  by  Josephine  Preston  Peabody.  This  play  is  fully 
protected  under  the  Copyright  law  of  the  United  States  and  is  subject 
to  royalty  when  produced  by  amateurs  or  professionals.  Applications 
for  the  right  to  produce  Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes  should  be  made  to 
Samuel  French,  28  West  38   Street,  New  York.     All  rights  reserved. 


Josephine  Preston  Peabody  (Mrs.  Lionel  S.  Marks)  was 
born  in  New  York  on  May  30,  1874.  She  attended  the  Girls' 
Latin  School  in  Boston  and  later  went  to  Radcliffe  College. 
From  1901  to  1903  she  taught  English  literature  at  Wellesley 
College.  Her  verse,  dramatic  and  lyric,  has  made  her  an  out- 
standing figure  in  American  letters. 

Fortune  and  Mens  Eyes  (1900),  the  first  of  her  published 
plays,  is  written  in  blank  verse.  Marlowe,  likewise  a  study  of 
a  great  Elizabethan,  The  PFings,  the  setting  of  which  is  early 
English,  The  Piper,  a  new  version  of  the  medieval  legend 
made  famous  by  Browning,  and  The  Wolf  of  Gubbio,  domin- 
ated by  the  lovely  figure  of  St,  Francis  of  Assisi,  are  also 
poetic  dramas.  Her  best  known  play,  The  Piper,  was  awarded 
the  first  prize  in  1910  in  the  Stratford-on-Avon  competition  in 
which  there  were  three  hundred  and  fifteen  contestants.  It 
was  then  produced  at  the  Memorial  Theatre  at  Stratford. 

In  recent  years  two  playwrights  have  consulted  Shakespeare's 
sonnets  for  dramatic  themes;  first,  Josephine  Preston  Peabody 
found  in  them  a  motive  for  her  poetic  play,  Fortune  and  Men's 
Eyes,  and  later  George  Bernard  Shaw  turned  them  to  dramatic 
account,  in  his  own  fashion,  in  The  Dark  Lady  of  the  Sonnets. 
The  dramatic  situation  chosen  for  Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes  has 
been  read  by  some  Shakespearian  scholars  into  the  familiar  dedi- 
cation of  the  1609  edition  of  the  Sonnets,  which  runs:  "To 
the  only  begetter  of  these  ensuing  sonnets  Mr.  W.  H.  all  hap- 
piness and  that  eternity  promised  by  our  ever-living  poet 
wisheth  the  well-wishing  adventurer  in  setting  forth  T.  T." 
The  last  initials  stand  for  the  name  of  the  publisher,  Thomas 
Thorpe.  "  Begetter "  has  been  variously  interpreted  as  in- 
spirer  of  the  Sonnets  or  as  partner  in  the  commercial  enterprise 
of  their  publication.  "  Mr.  W.  H."  has  been  more  usually 
identified  with  William  Herbert,  earl  of  Pembroke,  though 
some  have  thought  that  the  initials  were  inverted  and  referred 
to  Henry  Wriothesly,  earl  of  Southampton,  to  whom  Shake- 
speare's other  poems  were  dedicated.  If  W.  H.  does  refer  to 
the  earl  of  Pembroke,  it  is  usually  held  that  the  "  dark  lady  " 
is  in  reality  the  blond  Mistress  Mary  Fytton,  whose  name 

287 


288  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

was  coupled  with  Pembroke's.  Whether  the  sonnets  are  in 
any  sense  at  all  autobiographical  has  also  been  endlessly  de- 
bated. It  was  admittedly  an  age  when  every  poet  tried  his 
hand  at  sonnet  sequences  and  in  all  these  sequences,  not  ex- 
cepting Shakespeare's,  there  are  to  be  found  the  same  conven- 
tional conceits.  But  it  is  generally  believed  now  that  the 
sonnets  of  Spenser  and  Sidney  refer  to  the  personal  experiences 
of  their  authors.  It  is  quite  possible,  then,  that  Shakespeare,  too, 
may  have  used  a  literary  convention  as  a  means  of  personal 
expression,  though  it  seems  impertinent  in  any  case  to  question 
the  feeling  back  of  "  When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 
eyes."  This  brief  reference  to  conflicting  interpretations  of  the 
Sonnets  shows  how  material  of  dramatic  value  may  lurk  even 
in  the  purlieus  of  textual  criticism. 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody  herself  says:  "The  play  was 
written  after  long  worship  of  the  W.  S.  Sonnets,  as  a  method 
of  introspection,  to  satisfy  my  own  curiosity  concerning  the 
truth  of  the  sonnet  theories.  In  spite  of  recurrent  threats,  by 
one  actor  after  another,  it  has  never  yet  been  produced  on  the 
professional  stage.  But  it  has  been  read  and  recommended  for 
reading,  in  various  colleges,  as  a  picture  of  Elizabethan  times, 
and  as  an  interpretation  of  the  Pembroke-Fytton  aspect  of  the 
sonnet  story." 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

"  When  in  disgrace  with  Fortune  and  men's  eyes  "  .   .   ._ 

Sonnet  xxix. 

CHARACTERS 

William  Herbert,  son  of  the  Earl  of  Pembroke. 

Simeon  Dyer,  a  Puritan. 

Tobias,  host  of  "  The  Bear  and  The  Angel." 

Wat  Burrow,  a  bear-ward. 

Dickon,  a  little  boy,  son  to  Tobias. 

Chiffin,  a  ballad-monger. 

A  Prentice. 

A  Player,  master  W.  S.  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain  s  Company. 

Mistress  Mary  Fytton,  a  maid-of-honor  to  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Mistress  Anne  Hughes,  also  of  the  Court. 
Taverners  and  Prentices. 

Time  represented:  An  afternoon  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  1599. 

SCENE.— Interior  of  "  The  Bear  and  the  Angel!'  South 
London.  At  back,  the  center  entrance  gives  on  a  short 
alley-walk  which  joins  the  street  beyond  at  a  right  angle. 
To  right  and  left  of  this  doorway,  casements.  Down,  on 
the  right,  a  door  opening  upon  the  inn-garden;  a  second 
door  on  the  right,  up,  leading  to  a  tap-room.  Opposite 
this,  left,  a  door  leading  into  a  buttery.  Opposite  the 
garden-door,  a  large  chimney-piece  with  a  smoldering 
wood-fire.  A  few  seats;  a  lantern  (unlighted)  in  a  cor- 
ner. In  the  foreground,  to  the  right,  a  long  and  narrow 
table  with  several  mugs  of  ale  upon  it,  also  a  lute. 

At  one  end  of  the  table  Wat  Burrow  is  finishing  his  ale  and 
holding  forth  to  the  Prentice  {who  thrums  the  lute)  and 
a  group  of  taverners,  some  smoking.     At  the  further  end 

289 


290  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

of  the  table  Simeon  Dyer  observes  all  with  grave  curi- 
osity.    Tobias  and  Dickon  draw  near.     General  noise. 

Prentice  [singing]. 

What  do  I  give  for  the  Pope  and  his  riches! 
I's  my  ale  and  my  Sunday  breeches; 
I's  an  old  m-aster,  I's  a  young  lass. 
And  we'll  eat  green  goose,  come  Martinmas! 
Sing  Rowdy  Dowdy, 
Look  ye  don't  crowd  me: 
I's  a  good  club, 

— So  let  me  pass! 

Dickon. 

Again!  again! 
Prentice.  Sing  Rowdy — 

Wat  [finishing  his  beer].     Swallow  it  down. 

Sling  all  such  froth  and  follow  me  to  the  Bear! 

They  stay  for  me,  lined  up  to  see  us  pass 

From  end  to  end  o'  the  alley.     Ho!     You  doubt? 

From  Lambeth  to  the  Bridge! 
Taverners.  I  J  'Tis  so ;  ay. 

Prentices.    )  (  Come,  follow !    Come. 

Wat.  Greg's  stuck  his  ears 

With  nosegays,  and  his  chain  is  wound  about 

Like  any  May-pole.     What?     I  tell  ye,  boys. 

Ye  have  seen  no  such  bear,  a  Bear  o'  Bears, 

Fit  to  bite  off  the  prophet,  in  the  show, 

With  seventy  such  boys! 

[Pulling  Dickon's  ear].    Bears,  say  you,  bears? 

Why,  Rursus  Major,  as  your  scholars  tell, 

A  royal  bear,  the  greatest  in  his  day. 

The  sport  of  Alexander,  unto  Nick — 

Was  a  ewe-lamb,  dyed  black;  no  worse,  no  worse. 

To-morrow  come  and  see  him  with  the  dogs; 

He'll  not  give  way, — not  he! 
Dickon.  To-morrow's  Thursday! 

To-morrow's  Thursday! 
Prentice.  Will  ye  lead  by  here? 

Tobias. 

Ay,  that  would  be  a  sight.    Wat,  man,  this  way ! 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  291 

Wat. 

Ho.  would  you  squinch  us?    Why,  there  be  a  press 
O'  gentry  by  this  tide  to  measure  Nick 
And  lay  their  wagers,  at  a  blink  of  him, 
Against  to-morrow!    Why,  the  stairs  be  full. 
To-morrow  you  shall  see  the  Bridge  a-creak, 
The  river — dry  with  barges, — London  gape, 
Gape!    While  the  Borough  buzzes  like  a  hive 
With  all  their  worships!     Sirs,  the  fame  o'   Nick 
Has  so  pluckt  out  the  gentry  by  the  sleeve, 
'Tis  said  the  Queen  would  see  him. 

Tobias.    )  j  Ay,  'tis  grand. 

Dickon.  )  ( O-oh,  the  Queen? 

Prentice. 

How  now?    Thou  art  no  man  to  lead  a  bear, 
Forgetting  both  his  quality  and  hers! 
Drink  all;  come,  drink  to  her. 

Tobias.  Ay,  now. 

Wat.  To  her! — 

And  harkee,  boy,  this  saying  will  serve  you  learn: 
"The  Queen,  her  high  and  glorious  majesty!" 

Simeon   [gravely]. 

Long  live  the  Queen! 

Wat.  Maker  of  golden  laws 

For  baitings!     She  that  cherishes  the  Borough 
And  shines  upon  our  pastimes.     By  the  mass! 
Thank  her  for  the  crowd  to-morrow.     But  for  her. 
We  were  a  homesick  handful  of  brave  souls 
That  love  the  royal  sport.     These  mouthing  players. 
These  hookers,  would  'a'  spoiled  us  of  our  beer — 

Prentice. 

Lying  by  to  catch  the  gentry  at  the  stairs, — 

All  pressing  to  Bear  Alley — 
Wat.  Run  'em  in 

At  stage-plays  and  show-fooleries  on  the  way. 

Stage-plays,  with  their  tart  nonsense  and  their  flags. 

Their  "  Tamerlanes  "  and  "Humors"  and  what  not! 

My  life  on't,  there  was  not  a  man  of  us 

But  fared  his  Lent,  by  reason  of  their  fatness, 

And  on  a  holiday  ate  not  at  all! 


292  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

Tobias  [solemnly]. 

'Tis  so;  'tis  so. 
Wat.  But  when  she  heard  it  told 

How  lean  the  sport  was  grown,  she  damns  stage-plays 

O'  Thursday.     So:  Nick  gets  his  turn  to  growl! 
Prentice. 

As  well  as  any  player. 

[With  a  dumb  show  of  ranting  among  the  Taverners.] 

Wat.  Players? — Hang  them! 

I  know  'em,  I,     I've  been  with  'em.  ...  I  was 

As  sweet  a  gentlewoman  in  my  voice 

As  any  of  your  finches  that  sings  small. 
Tobias.  'Twas  high. 

[Enter  The  Player,  followed  by  Chiffin,  the  ballad- 
monger.     He  is  abstracted  and  weary.] 

Wat  [lingering  at  the  table]. 

I  say,  I've  played.   .    .    .  There's  not  one  man 
Of  all  the  gang — save  one  .    .    .  Ay,  there  be  one 
I  grant  you,  now!  .    .    .  He  used  me  in  right  sort; 
A  man  worth  better  trades. 

[Seeing  The  Player.] 

— Lord  love  you,  sir! 

Why,  this  is  you  indeed.     'Tis  a  long  day,  sir, 

Since  I  clapped  eyes  on  you.     But  even  now 

Your  name  was  on  my  tongue  as  pat  as  ale! 

You  see  me  off.     We  bait  to-morrow,  sir; 

Will  you  come  see?     Nick's  fresh,  and  every  soul 

As  hot  to  see  the  fight  as  'twere  to  be — 

Man  Daniel,  baited  with  the  lions! 
Tobias.  Sir, 

'Tis  high  .    .    .   'tis  high. 
Wat.  We  show  him  in  the  street 

With  dogs  and  all,  ay,  now,  if  you  will  see. 
The  Player. 

Why,  so  I  will.    A  show  and  I  not  there  ? 

Bear  it  out  bravely,  Wat.     High  fortune,  man! 
:        Commend  me  to  thy  bear. 

[Drinks  and  passes  him  the  cup.] 
Wat.  Lord  love  you,  sir! 

'Twas  ever  so  you  gave  a  man  godspeed.  .   .   . 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  293 

And  yet  your  spirits  flag ;  you  look  but  palely. 
I'll  take  your  kindness,  thank  ye. 

[Turning  away.] 

In  good  time! 
Come  after  me  and  Nick,  now.     Follow  all; 
Come  boys,  come,  pack! 

[Exit  Wat^  still  descanting.  Exeunt  most  of  the  Tav- 
ERNERS,  with  the  Prentice,  Simeon  Dyer  draws 
near  The  Player,  regarding  hi?n  gravely.  Chiffin 
sells  ballads  to  those  who  go  out.  Dickon  is  about  to 
follow  them,  when  Tobias  stops  him.] 
Tobias. 

What?    Not  so  fast,  you  there; 

Who  gave  you  holiday?     Bide  by  the  inn; 

Tend  on  our  gentry. 

[Exit  after  the  crowd.] 
Chiffin.  Ballads,  gentlemen? 

Ballads,  new  ballads? 
Simeon  [to  The  Player.] 
With  your  pardon,  sir, 
I  am  gratified  to  note  your  abstinence 
From  this  deplorable  fond  merriment 
Of  baiting  of  a  bear. 
The  Player.  Your  friendship  then 

Takes  pleasure  in  the  heaviness  of  my  legs. 
But  I  am  weary  I  would  see  the  bear. 
Nay,  rest  you  happy;  malt  shall  comfort  us. 

Simeon. 

You  do  mistake  me.     I  am — 
Chiffin.  Ballad,  sir?     ^ 

"  How  a  Young  Spark  would  Woo  a  Tanner's  Wife, 

And  She  Sings  Sweet  in  Turn." 

Simeon  [indignantly]. 

Abandoned  poet! 

Chiffin   [indignantly]. 

I'm  no  such  thing!    An  honest  ballad,  sir, 
No  poetry  at  all. 

The  Player. 

Good,  sell  thy  wares. 


294  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

Chiffin. 

"  A  Ballad  of  a  Virtuous  Country-Maid 
Forswears  the  Follies  of  the  Flaunting  Town  " — 
And  tends  her  geese  all  day,  and  weds  a  vicar. 

Simeon. 

A  godlier  tale,  in  sooth.     But  speak,  my  man ; 
If  she  be  virtuous,  and  the  tale  a  true  one, 
Can  she  not  do't  in  prose? 

The  Player.  Beseech  her,  man. 

'Tis  scandal  she  should  use  a  measure  so. 
For  no  more  sin  than  dealing  out  false  measure 
Was  Dame  Sapphira  slain. 

Simeon.  You  are  with  me,  sir; 

Although  methinks  you  do  mistake  the  sense 
O'  that  you  have  read.  .    .    .  This  jigging,  jog-trot  rime, 
This  ring-me-round,  debaseth  mind  and  matter, 
To  make  the  reason  giddy — 

Chiffin  [to  The  Player]. 

Ballad,  sir? 
"  Hear  All!  "    A  fine  brave  ballad  of  a  Fish 
Just  caught  off  Dover;  nay,  a  one-eyed  fish, 
With  teeth  in  double  rows. 

The  Player.  Nay,  nay,  go  to. 

Chiffin. 

"  My  Fortune's  Folly,"  then ;  or  "  The  True  Tale 

Of  an  Angry  Gull ;  "  or  "  Cherries  Like  Me  Best." 

"  Black  Sheep,  or  How  a  Cut-Purse  Robbed  His  Mother;  " 

"  The  Prentice  and  the  Dell!  "  .  .  .  "  Plays  Play  not  Fair," 

Or  how  a  gentlewoman  s  heart  was  took 

By  a  player  that  was  king  in  a  stage-play.  .    .   . 

"  The  Merry  Salutation,"  "  How  a  Spark 

Would  Woo  a  Tanner's  Wife !  "    "  The  Direful  Fish  "— 

Cock's  passion,  sir!  not  buy  a  cleanly  ballad 

Of  the  great  fish,  late  ta'en  off  Dover  coast. 

Having  two  heads  and  teeth  in  double  rows.  .    .    . 

Salt  fish  catched  in  fresh  water?  .    .    . 

'Od's  my  life! 
What  if  or  salt  or  fresh?     A  prodigy! 
A  ballad  like  "  Hear  All!  "     And  me  and  mine, 
Five  children  and  a  wife  would  bait  the  devil. 
May  lap  the  water  out  o'  Lambeth  Marsh 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  295 

Before  he'll  buy  a  ballad.     My  poor  wife, 
That  lies  a-weeping  for  a  tansy-cake! 
Body  o'  me,  shall  I  scent  ale  again? 
The  Player. 

Why,  here's  persuasion;  logic,  arguments. 
Nay,  not  the  ballad.     Read  for  thine  own  joy. 
I  doubt  not  but  it  stretches,  honest  length. 
From  Maid  Lane  to  the  Bridge  and  so  across. 
But  for  thy  length  of  thirst — 

[Giving  him  a  coin.\ 

That  touches  near. 

Chiffin  [apart]. 

A  vagrom  player,  would  not  buy  a  tale 
O'  the  Great  Fish  with  the  twy  rows  o'  teeth! 
Learn  you  to  read!     [Exit.] 
Simeon. 

Thou  seemest,  sir,  from  that  I  have  overheard, 
A  man,  as  one  should  grant,  beyond  thy  calling.  .    .    . 
I  would  I  might  assure  thee  of  the  way, 
To  urge  thee  quit  this  painted  infamy. 
There  may  be  time,  seeing  thou  art  still  young. 
To  pluck  thee  from  the  burning.     How  are  ye  'stroyed, 
Ye  foolish  grasshoppers!     Cut  off,  forgotten, 
When  moth  and  rust  corrupt  your  flaunting  shows, 
The  Earth  shall  have  no  memory  of  your  name! 
Dickon. 

Pray  you,  what's  yours? 
Simeon.  I  am  called  Simeon  Dyer. 

[There  is  the  sudden  uproar  of  a  crowd  in  the  distance. 
It  continues  at  intervals  for  some  time.] 
S  Hey,  lads? 
Prentices.    sSome  noise  beyond:  Come,  cudgels,  come! 
J  Come  on,  come  on,  I'm  for  it. 
[Exeunt  all  but  The  Player,  Simeon,  and  Dickon.] 
Simeon. 

Something  untoward,  without:  or  is  it  rather 
The  tumult  of  some  uproar  incident 
To  this  .    .   .  vicinity? 
The  Player.  It  is  an  uproar 

Most  incident  to  bears. 
Dickon.  I  would  I  knew! 


296  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

The  Player  [holding  hi?n  off  at  arm's  length]. 

Hey,  boy?    We  would  have  tidings  of  the  bear: 
Go  thou,  I'll  be  thy  surety.     Mark  him  well. 
Omit  no  fact;  I  would  have  all  of  it: 
What  manner  o'  bear  he  is, — how  bears  himself; 
Number  and  pattern  of  ears,  and  eyes  what  hue; 
His  voice  and  fashion  o'  coat.     Nay,  come  not  back, 
Till  thou  hast  all.     Skip,  sirrah! 

[Exit  Dickon.] 

Simeon.  Think,  fair  sir. 

Take  this  new  word  of  mine  to  be  a  seed 

Of  thought  in  that  neglected  garden  plot, 

Thy  mind,  thy  worthier  part.     But  think! 
The  Player.  Why,  so; 

Thou  hast  some  right,  friend;  now  and  then  it  serves. 

Sometimes  I  have  thought,  and  even  new  sometimes, 

...    I  think. 
Simeon   [benevolently].     Heaven  ripen  thought  unto  an  har- 
vest!    [Exit.] 

[The   Player   rises,   stretches   his   arms,  and  paces   the 
floor,  wearily.] 
The  Player  [alone]. 

Some  quiet  now.  .    .   .  Why  should  I  thirst  for  it 

As  if  my  thoughts  were  noble  company? 

Alone  with  the  one  man  of  all  living  men 

I  have  least  cause  to  honor.  .   .   . 

I'm  no  lover, 

That  seek  to  be  alone!  .    .    .  She  is  too  false — 

At  last,  to  keep  a  spaniel's  loyalty. 

I  do  believe  it.    And  by  my  own  soul, 

She  shall  not  have  me,  what  remains  of  me 

That  may  be  beaten  back  into  the  ranks. 

I  will  not  look  upon  her.  .    .    .  Bitter  Sweet. 

This  fever  that  torments  me  day  by  day — 

Call  it  not  love — this  servitude,  this  spell 

That  haunts  me  like  a  sick  man's  fantasy, 

With  pleading  of  her  eyes,  her  voice,  her  eyes — 

It  shall  not  have  me.     I  am  too  much  stained: 

But,  God  or  no  God,  yet  I  do  not  live 

And  have  to  bear  my  own  soul  company, 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  297 

To  have  it  stoop  so  low.     She  looks  on  Herbert. 
Oh,  I  have  seen.     But  he, — he  must  withstand. 
He  knows  that  I  have  suffered, — suffer  still — 
Although  I  love  her  not.     Her  ways,  her  ways — 
It  is  her  ways  that  eat  into  the  heart 
With  beauty  more  than  Beauty;  and  her  voice 
That  silvers  o'er  the  meaning  of  her  speech 
Like  moonshine  on  black  waters.     Ah,  uncoil!  .    .    . 
He's  the  sure  morning  after  this  dark  dream; 
Clear  daylight  and  west  wind  of  a  lad's  love; 
With  all  his  golden  pride,  for  my  dull  hours, 
Still  climbing  sunward!     Sink  all  loves  in  him! 
And  cleanse  me  of  this  cursed,  fell  distrust 
That  marks  the  pestilence.  .    .   . 

'  Fair,  hind,  and  true.^ 
Lad,  lad.     How  could  I  turn  from  friendliness 
To  worship  such  false  gods? — 
There  cannot  thrive  a  greater  love  than  this, 
'  Fair,  kind,  and  true.'     And  yet,  if  She  were  true 
To  me,  though  false  to  all  things  else; — one  truth, 
So  one  truth  lived — .     One  truth!     O  beggared  soul, 
— Foul  Lazarus,  so  starved  it  can  make  shift 
To  feed  on  crumbs  of  honor! — Am  I  this? 

[Enter  Anne  Hughes.    She  has  been  running  in  evident 
terror,  and  stands  against  the  door  looking  about  her.] 
Anne. 

Are  you  the  inn-keeper  ? 

[The  Player  turns  and  bows  courteously.] 

Nay,  sir,  your  pardon. 
I  saw  you  not  .  .  .  And  yet  your  face,  methinks, 
But — yes,  I'm  sure.  .   .   . 

But  where's  the  inn-keeper? 
I  know  not  where  I  am,  nor  where  to  go. 
The  Player. 

Madam,  it  is  my  fortune  that  I  may 

Procure  you  service.     [Going  towards  the  door.     The  up- 
roar sounds  nearer.] 
Anne.  Nay!  what  if  the  bear — 

The  Player. 
The  bear? 


298  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

Anne. 

The  door!    The  bear  is  broken  loose. 

Did  you  not  bear?    I  scarce  could  make  my  way 

Through  that  rank  crowd,  in  search  of  some  safe  place. 

You  smile,  sir !    But  you  had  not  seen  the  bear, — 

Nor  I,  this  morning.    Pray  you,  hear  me  out, — 

For  surely  you  are  gentler  than  the  place. 

I  came  ...    I  came  by  water  ...  to  the  Garden, 

Alone,   .    .    .  from  bravery,  to  see  the  show 

And  tell  of  it  hereafter  at  the  Court! 

There's  one  of  us  makes  count  of  all  such  'scapes 

('Tis  Mistress  Fytton).     She  will  ever  tell 

The  sport  it  is  to  see  the  people's  games 

Among  themselves, — to  go  incognita 

And  take  all  as  it  is  not  for  the  Queen, 

Gallants  and  rabble!     But  by  Banbury  Cross, 

I  am  of  tamer  mettle! — All  alone. 

Among  ten  thousand  noisy  watermen ; 

And  then  the  foul  ways  leading  from  the  Stair; 

And  then  ...  no  friends  I  knew,  nay,  not  a  face. 

And  my  dear  nose  beset,  and  my  pomander 

Lost  in  the  rout, — or  else  a  cut-purse  had  it: 

And  then  the  bear  breaks  loose!     Oh,  'tis  a  day 

Full  of  vexations,  nay,  and  dangers  too. 

I  would  I  had  been  slower  to  outdo 

The  pranks  of  Mary  Fytton.  .   .   .  You  know  her,  sir? 
The  Player. 

If  one  of  my  plain  calling  may  be  said 

To  know  a  maid-of-honor.    [More  lightly.^   And  yet  more: 

My  heart  has  cause  to  know  the  lady's  face. 
Anne  [blankly]. 

Why,  so  it  is.  .   .   .  Is't  not  a  marvel,  sir, 

The  way  she  hath?     Truly,  her  voice  is  good.   .    .    . 

And  yet, — but  oh,  she  charms;  I  hear  it  said. 

A  winsome  gentlewoman,  of  a  wit,  too. 

We  are  great  fellows ;  she  tells  me  all  she  does ; 

And,  sooth,  I  listen  till  my  ears  be  like 

To  grow  for  wonder.    Whence  my  'scape,  to-day! 

Oh,  she  hath  daring  for  the  pastimes  here; 

I  would — change  looks  with  her,  to  have  her  spirit! 

Indeed,  they  say  she  charms  Someone,  by  this. 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  299 

The  Player. 

Someone.   .   .    . 
Anne.  Hast  heard? 

Why  sure  my  Lord  of  Herbert. 

Ay,  Pembroke's  son.    But  there  I  doubt, — I  doubt. 

He  is  an  eagle  will  not  stoop  for  less 

Than  kingly  prey.  No  bird-lime  takes  him. 
The  Player.  Herbert.  .   .   , 

He  hath  shown  many  favors  to  us  players. 
Anne. 

Ah,  now  I  have  you ! 
The  Player.  Surely,  gracious  madam; 

My  duty;  .   .   .  what  besides? 
Anne.  This  face  of  yours. 

'Twas  in  some  play,  belike.     [Apart.]  ...  I  took  him  for 

A  man  it  should  advantage  me  to  know! 

And  he's  a  proper  man  enough.  ...  Ay  me! 

[When  she  speaks  to   him   again   it  is  with   encouraging 
condescension.] 

Surely  you've  been  at  Whitehall,  Master  Player? 
The  Player  [bowing]. 

So. 
Anne.  And  how  oft?    And  when? 
The  Player.  Last  Christmas  tide; 

And  Twelfth  Day  eve,  perchance.    Your  memory 

Freshens  a  dusty  past.  .    .    .  The  hubbub's  over. 

Shall  I  look  forth  and  find  some  trusty  boy 

To  attend  you  to  the  river? 
Anne.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

[He  goes  to  the  door  and  steps  out  into  the  alley,  looking 
up  and  down.  The  noise  in  the  distance  springs  up 
again.] 

[Apart.]     'Tis  not  past  sufferance.     Marry,  I  could  stay 

Some  moments  longer,  till  the  streets  be  safe. 

Sir,  sir! 
The  Player  [returning]. 

Command  me,  madam. 
Anne.  I  vvill  wait 

A  little  longer,  lest  I  meet  once  more 

That  ruffian  mob  or  any  of  the  dogs. 

These  sports  are  better  seen  from  balconies. 


300  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

The  Player. 

Will  you  step  hither?    There's  an  arbored  walk 

Sheltered  and  safe.     Should  they  come  by  again, 

You  may  see  all,  an't  like  you,  and  be  hid. 
Anne. 

A  garden  there?    Come,  you  shall  show  it  me. 

[They  go  out  into  the  garden  on  the  right,  leaving  the 
door  shut.  Immediately  enter,  in  great  haste,  Mary 
Fytton  and  William  Herbert,  followed  by 
Dickon,  who  looks  about  and,  seeing  no  one,  goes 
to  setting  things  in  order.] 

Mary. 

Quick,  quick !  .  .  .  She  must  have  seen  me.  Those  big  eyes, 

How  could  they  miss  me,  peering  as  she  was 

For  some  familiar  face?     She  would  have  known, 

Even  before  my  mask  was  jostled  off 

In  that  wild  rabble  .   .   .  bears  and  bearish  men. 
Herbert. 

Why  would  you  have  me  bring  you? 
Mary.  Why?  Ah,  why! 

Sooth,  once  I  had  a  reason:  now  'tis  lost, — 

Lost!     Lost!    Call  out  the  bell-man. 
Dickon  [seriously].  Shall  I  so? 

Herbert. 

Nay,  nay ;  that  were  a  merriment  indeed, 

To   cry    us    through    the   streets!     [To    Mary.]      You 
riddling  charm. 
Mary. 

A  riddle,  yet?    You  almost  love  me,  then. 
Herbert. 

Almost? 
Mary. 

Because  you  cannot  understand. 

Alas,  when  all's  unriddled,  the  charm  goes. 
Herbert. 

Come,  you're  not  melancholy? 
Mary.  Nay,  are  you  ? 

But  should  Nan  Hughes  have  seen  us,  and  spoiled  all — 
Herbert. 

How  could  she  so  ? 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  301 

Mary.  I  know  not  .   .   .  yet  I  know 

If  she  had  met  us,  she  could  steal  To-day, 

Golden  To-day. 
Herbert.  A  kiss;  and  so  forget  her. 

Mary. 

Hush,  hush, — the  tavern-boy  there. 

[To  Dickon.]  Tell  me,  boy, — 

[To  Herbert.]  Some  errand,  now;  a  roc's  egg! 

Strike  thy  wit. 
Herbert. 

What  is't  you  miss?    Why,  so.    The  lady's  lost 

A  very  curious  reason,  wrought  about 

With  diverse  broidery. 
Mary.  Nay,  'twas  a  mask. 

Herbert. 

A  mask,  arch-wit?    Why  will  you  mock  yourself 

And  all  your  fine  deceits?    Your  mask,  your  reason, 

Your  reason  with  a  mask ! 
Mary.  You  are  too  merry. 

[To  Dickon.]     A  mask  it  is,  and  muffler  finely  wrought 

With  little  amber  points  all  hung  like  bells. 

I  lost  it  as  I  came,  somewhere.  .   .   . 
Herbert.  Somewhere 

Between  the  Paris  Gardens  and  the  Bridge. 
Mary. 

Or  below  Bridge — or  haply  in  the  Thames! 
Herbert. 

No  matter  where,  so  you  do  bring  it  back. 

Fly,  Mercury  I  Here's  feathers  for  thy  heels.   [Giving  coin.] 
Mary  [aside]. 

Weights,  weights!     [Exit  Dickon.] 

[Herbert  looks  about  him,  opens  the  door  of  the  tap- 
room, grows   troubled.     She  watches   him   with  dis- 
satisfaction,  seeming    to   warm    her  feet  by   the   fire 
meanwhile.] 
Herbert  [apart]. 

I  know  this  place.     We  used  to  come 

Together,  he  and  I  .    .    . 
Mary  [apart].  Forgot  again. 

O  the  capricious  tides,  the  hateful  calms. 

And  the  too  eager  ship  that  would  be  gone 


302  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

Adventuring  against  uncertain  winds, 

For  some  new,  utmost  sight  of  Happy  Isles! 

Becalmed, — becalmed   .    .    ,    But  I  will  break  this  calm, 

[She  sees  the  lute  on  the  table,  crosses  and  takes  it  up,  run- 
ning her  fingers  over  the  strings  very  softly.  She  sits.\ 
Herbert. 

Ah,  mermaid,  is  it  you? 
Mary.  Did  you  sail  far? 

Herbert. 

Not  I;  no,  sooth.     [Crossing  to  her.] 

Mermaid,  I  would  not  think. 

But  you — 
Mary. 

I  think  not.     I  remember  nothing. 

There's  nothing  in  the  world  but  you  and  me; 

All  else  is  dust.    Thou  shalt  not  question  me; 

Or  if, — but  as  a  sphinx  in  woman-shape: 

And  when  thou  fail'st  at  answer,  I  shall  turn. 

And  rend  thy  heart  and  cast  thee  from  the  cliff. 

[She  leans  her  head  back  against  him,  and  he  kisses  her.] 

So  perish  all  who  guess  not  what  I  am!  .    .    . 

Oh,  but  I  know  you:  you  are  April-Days. 

Nothing  is  sure,  but  all  is  beautiful! 

[She  runs   her  fingers   up   the  strings,   one   by   one,   and 
listens,  speaking  to  the  lute.] 

Is  it  not  so?    Come,  answer.     Is  it  true? 

Speak,  sweeting,  since  I  love  thee  best  of  late, 

And  have  forsook  my  virginals  for  thee. 

All's  beautiful  indeed  and  all  unsure? 

" Ay"  .    .    .    (Did  you  hear?)     He's  fair  and  faithless? 
"Ay."     [Speaking  with  the  lute.] 
Herbert. 

Poor  oracle,  with  only  one  reply! — 

Wherein  'tis  unlike  thee. 
Mary.  Can  he  love  aught 

So  well  as  his  own  image  in  the  brook. 

Having  once  seen  itf 
Herbert.  Ay! 

Mary.  The  lute  saith  "No."  .    .    . 

O  dullard!     Here  were  tidings,  would  you  mark. 

What  said  I  ?     Oracle,  can  he  love  aught 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  303 

So  dear  as  his  own  image  in  the  brook. 
Having  once  looked"?  .    .   .  No,  truly. 
[With  sudden  abandon.]  Nor  can  I! 

Herbert. 

0  leave  this  game  of  words,  you  thousand-tongued. 
Sing,  sing  to  me.    So  shall  I  be  all  yours 
Forever; — or  at  least  till  you  be  mute!   .    .    . 

1  used  to  wonder  he  should  be  thy  slave: 

I  wonder  now  no  more.     Your  ways  are  wonders; 
You  have  a  charm  to  make  a  man  forget 
His  past  and  yours,  and  everything  but  you. 
Mary  [speaking]. 

"  When  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white  " — 
How  now? 
Herbert. 

"  How  now?  "    That  song  .   .   .  thou  wilt  sing  that? 
Mary. 

Marry,  what  mars  the  song? 
Herbert.  Have  you  forgot 

Who  made  it? 
Mary.  Soft,  what  idleness!     So  fine? 

So  rude?    And  bid  me  sing!     You  get  but  silence; 
Or,  if  I  sing, — beshrew  me,  it  shall  be 
A  dole  of  song,  a  little  starveling  breath 
As  near  to  silence  as  a  song  can  be. 
\She  sings  under-breath,  fantastically.] 
Say  how  many  kisses  be 
Lent  and  lost  twixt  you  and  mef 
*  Can  I  tell  when  they  begun?  * 
Nay,  but  this  were  prodigal: 
Let  us  learn  to  count  withal. 
Since  no  ending  is  to  spending. 
Sum.  our  riches,  one  by  one. 
'  You  shall  keep  the  reckoning. 
Count  each  kiss  while  I  do  sing.' 
Herbert. 

Oh,  not  these  little  wounds.    You  vex  my  heart; 
Heal  it  again  with  singing, — come,  sweet,  come. 
Into  the  garden!     None  shall  trouble  us. 
This  place  has  memories  and  conscience  too: 


304  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

Drown  all,  my  mermaid.    Wind  them  in  your  hair 

And  drown  them,  drown  them  all. 

[He  swings  open  the  garden-door  for  her.     At  the  same 
moment  Anne's  voice  is  heard  approaching.] 
AiJNE  [without].    Some  music  there? 
Herbert. 

Perdition!    Quick, — behind  me,  love. 

[Swinging  the  door  shut  again,  and  looking  through  the 
crack.] 
Mary. 

'Tis  she— 

Nan  Hughes,  'tis  she!     How  came  she  here?    By  heaven, 

She  crosses  us  to-day.     Nan  Hughes  lights  here 

In  a  Bank  tavern!     Nay,  I'll  not  be  seen. 

Sooner  or  later  it  must  mean  the  wreck 

Of  both  .  .  .  should  the  Queen  know. 
Herbert.  The  spite  of  chance ! 

She  talks  with  someone  in  the  arbor  there 

Whose  face  I  see  not.     Come,  here's  doors  at  least. 

[They  cross  hastily.    Mary  opens  the  door  on  the  left  and 
looks  within.] 
Mary. 

Too  thick.  ...  I  shall  be  penned.    But  guard  you  this 

And  tell  me  when  they're  gone.     Stay,  stay; — mend  all. 

If  she  have  seen  me, — swear  it  was  not  I. 

Heaven  speed  her  home,  with  her  new  body-guard! 

[Exit,  closing  door.    Herbert  looks  out  into  the  garden.] 
Herbert. 

By  all  accursed  chances, — none  but  he! 

[Retires  up  to  stand  beside  the  door,  looking  out  of  case- 
ment.    Re-enter  from   the  garden,  Anne,  followed 
by  The  Player.] 
Anne. 

No,  'twas  some  magic  in  my  ears,  I  think. 
There's  no  one  here.     [Seeing  Herbert,] 

But  yes,  there's  someone  here: — 
The  inn-keeper.    Are  you — 

Saint  Catherine's  bones! 
My  Lord  of  Herbert.     Sir,  you  could  not  look 
More  opportune.    But  for  this  gentleman — 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  305 

Herbert  [bowinff]. 

My  friend,  this  long  time  since, — 
Anne. 

Marry,  your  friend? 
The  Player  [regarding  Wekbekt  searchingly\. 

This  long  time  since. 
Anne.  Nay,  is  it  so,  indeed? 

[To    Herbert.]      My   day's   fulfilled   of   blunders!     O 
sweet  sir. 

How  can  I  tell  you?    But  I'll  tell  you  all 

If  you'll  but  bear  me  escort  from  this  place 

Where  none  of  us  belongs.     Yours  is  the  first 

Familiar  face  I've  seen  this  afternoon! 

Herbert  [apart]. 

A  sweet  assurance. 

[Aloud.]  But  you  seek  .    .    .  you  need 

Some    rest — some    cheer,    some — Will    you    step    V/ithin? 

[Indicating  tap-room.] 
The  tavern  is  deserted,  but — 

Anne.  Not  here! 

I've  been  here  quite  an  hour.     Come,  citywards, 
To  Whitehall!     I  have  had  enough  of  bears 
To  quench  my  longing  till  next  Whitsuntide. 
Down  to  the  river,  pray  you. 

Herbert.  Sooth,  at  once? 

Anne. 

At  once,  at  once. 

[To  The  Player.]     I  crave  your  pardon,  sir, 
For  sundering  your  friendships.     I've  heard  say 
A  woman  always  comes  between  two  men 
To  their  confusion.     You  shall  drink  amends 
Some  other  day.     I  must  be  safely  home. 

The  Player   [reassured  by  Herbert's  reluctance  to  go.] 
It  joys  me  that  your  trials  have  found  an  end ; 
And  for  the  rest,  I  wish  you  prosperous  voyage; 
Which  needs  not,  with  such  halcyon  weather  toward. 

Herbert  [apart]. 

It  cuts:  and  yet  he  knows  not.    Can  it  pass? 

[To  him.]     Let  us  meet  soon.     I  have — I  know  not  what 

To  say — nay,  no  import;  but  chance  has  parted 


3o6  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

Our  several  ways  too  long.     To  leave  you  thus, 

Without  a  word — 
Anne.  You  are  in  haste,  my  lord! 

By  the  true  faith,  here  are  two  friends  indeed ! 

Two  lovers  crossed :  and  I, — 'tis  I  that  bar  them. 

Pray  tarry,  sir.    I  doubt  not  I  may  light 

Upon  some  link-boy  to  attend  me  home 

Or  else  a  drunken  prentice  with  a  club, 

Or  that  patched  keeper  strolling  from  the  Garden 

With  all  his  dogs  along;  or  failing  them, 

A  pony  with  a  monkey  on  his  back, 

Or,  failing  that,  a  bear!     Some  escort,  sure. 

Such  as  the  Borough  offers!     I  shall  look 

Part  of  a  pageant  from  the  Lady  Fair, 

And  boast  for  three  full  moons,  "  Such  sights  I  saw!  " 

Truly,  'tis  new  to  me:  but  I  doubt  not 

I  shall  trick  out  a  mind  for  strange  adventure, 

As  high  as — Mistress  Fytton! 
Herbert.  Say  no  more. 

Dear  lady!     I  entreat  you  pardon  me 

The  lameness  of  my  wit.     I'm  stark  adream; 

You  lighted  here  so  suddenly,  unlooked  for 

Vision  in  Bankside.  .    .    .  Let  me  hasten  you. 

Now  that  I  see  I  dream  not.     It  grows  late. 
Anne. 

And  can  you  grant  me  such  a  length  of  time  ? 
Herbert. 

Length?     Say  Illusion!     Time?    Alas,  'twill  be 

Only  a  poor  half-hour  [loudly],  a  poor  half-hour! 

[Apart.]     Did  she  hear  that,  I  wonder? 
The  Player   [bowing  over  Anne's  hand].     Not  so,  madam; 

A  little  gold  of  largess,  fallen  to  me 

By  chance. 
Herbert  [to  him]. 

A  word  with  you — 

[Apart.]  O,  I  am  gagged! 

Anne  [to  The  Player]. 

You  go  with  us,  sir? 

[He  moves  towards  door  with  them.] 
The  Player.  No,  I  do  but  play 

Your  inn-keeper. 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  307 

Herbert  [apart,  despairingly^. 
The  eagle  is  gone  blind. 

\Exeunt,  leaving  doors  open.  They  are  seen  to  go  down 
the  walk  together.  At  the  street  they  pause.  The 
Player,  bowing  slowly,  then  turning  back  towards 
the  inn;  Anne  holding  Herbert's  arm.  Within,  the 
door  on  the  left  opens  slightly,  then  Mary  appears.] 
Mary. 

'Tis  true.    My  ears  caught  silence,  if  no  more. 
They're  gone.   .    .    . 

[She  comes  out  of  her  hiding-place  and  opens  the  left-hand 
casement  to  see  Anne  disappearing  with  HERBERT.] 
She  takes  him  with  her!     He'll  return? 
Gone,  gone,  without  a  word ;  and  I  was  caged, — 
And  deaf  as  well.    O,  spite  of  everything! 
She's  so  unlike.  .   .    .  How  long  shall  I  be  here 
To  wait  and  wonder?     He  with  her — with  her! 
[The  Player,  having  come  slowly  back  to  the  door,  hears 
her  voice.     Mary  darts  towards  the  entrance  to  look 
after  Herbert  and  Anne.    She  sees  him  and  recoils. 
She  falls  back  step  by  step,  while  he  stands  holding 
the  door-posts  with  his  hands,  impassive.] 
You!   .    .    . 
The  Player. 

Yes.  .    .    .    [After  a  pause.]     And  you. 
Mary.  Do  you  not  ask  me  why 

I'm  here? 
The  Player. 

I  am  not  wont  to  shun  the  truth: 
But  yet  I  think  the  reason  you  could  give 
Were  too  uncomely. 
Mary.  Nay ; — 

The  Player.  If  it  were  truth; 

If  it  were  truth !    Although  that  likelihood 
Scarce  threatens. 
Mary.  So.     Condemned  without  a  trial. 

The  Player. 

O,  speak  the  lie  now.     Let  there  be  no  chance 
For  my  unsightly  love,  bound  head  and  foot. 
Stark,  full  of  wounds  and  horrible, — to  find 
Escape  from  out  its  charnel-house  i  to  rise 


3o8  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

Unwelcome  before  eyes  that  had  forgot, 

And  say  it  died  not  truly.     It  should  die. 

Play  no  imposture:  leave  it, — it  is  dead. 

I  have  been  weak  in  that  I  tried  to  pour 

The  wine  through  plague-struck  veins.     It  came  to  life 

Over  and  over,  drew  sharp  breath  again 

In  torture  such  as't  may  be  to  be  born, 

If  a  poor  babe  could  tell.    Over  and  over, 

I  tell  you,  it  has  suffered  resurrection. 

Cheating  its  pain  with  hope,  only  to  die 

Over  and  over; — die  more  deaths  than  men 

The  meanest,  most  forlorn,  are  made  to  die 

By  tyranny  or  nature.   .    .    .   Now  I  see  all 

Clear.     And  I  say,  it  shall  not  rise  again. 

I  am  as  safe  from  you  as  I  were  dead. 

I  know  you. 

Mary.  Herbert — 

The  Player.  Do  not  touch  his  name. 

Leave  that;  I  saw. 

Mary.  You  saw  ?    Nay,  what  ? 

The  Player.  The  whole 

Clear  story.     Not  at  first.    While  you  were  hid, 
I  took  some  comfort,  drop  by  drop,  and  minute 
By  minute.     (Dullard!)     Yet  there  was  a  maze 
Of  circumstance  that  showed  even  then  to  me 
Perplext  and  strange.     You  here  unravel  it. 
All's  clear:  you  are  the  clue.     [Turning  away.] 

Mary  [going  to  the  casement]. 

[Apart.]  Caged,  caged! 

Does  he  know  all?    Why  were  those  walls  so  dense? 

[To  him.]      Nan  Hughes  hath  seized  the  time  to  tune 

your  mind 
To  some  light  gossip.     Say,  how  came  she  here? 

The  Player. 

All  emulation,  thinking  to  match  you 

In  high  adventure: — liked  it  not,  poor  lady! 

And  is  gone  home,  attended. 

[Re-enter  Dickon.] 

Dickon  [to  Mary].  They  be  lost! — 

Thy  mask  and  muffler; — 'tis  no  help  to  search. 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  309 

Some  hooker  would  'a'  swallowed  'em,  be  sure, 
As  the  whale  swallows  Jonas,  in  the  show. 
Mary. 

'Tis  nought:  I  care  not. 
Dickon  [looking  at  the  fire]. 
Hey,  it  wants  a  log. 

[While  he  mends  the  fire,  humming.  The  Player  stands 
taking  thought.     Mary  speaks  apart,  going  to  case- 
ment again  to  look  out.] 
Mary  [apart]. 

I  will  have  what  he  knows.     To  cast  me  off: — 

Not  thus,  not  thus.     Peace,  I  can  blind  him  yet, 

Or  he'll  despise  me.     Nay,  I  will  not  be 

Thrust  out  at  door  like  this.     I  will  not  go 

But  by  mine  own  free  will.    There  is  no  power 

Can  say  what  he  might  do  to  ruin  us, 

To  win  Will  Herbert  from  me, — almost  mine, 

And  I  all  his,  all  his — O  April-Days! — 

Well,  friendship  against  love?     I  know  who  wins. 

He  is  grown  dread.  .    .    .   But  yet  he  is  a  man. 

[Exit  Dickon  into  tap-room.] 
[To  The  Player,  suavely.]     Well,  headsman? 
[He  does  not  turn.] 

Mind  your  office:  I  am  judged. 
Guilty,  was  it  not  so?  .    .    .  What  is  to  do, 
Do  quickly.  .    .    .  Do  you  wait  for  some  reprieve? 
Guilty,  you  said.     Nay,  do  you  turn  your  face 
To  give  me  some  small  leeway  of  escape  ? 
And  yet,  I  will  not  go   .    .    . 

[Coming  down  slowly.] 

Well,  headsman?   .    .    ,; 
You  ask  not  why  I  came  here.  Clouded  Brow, 
Will  you  not  ask  me  why  I  stay?    No  word? 

0  blind,  come  lead  the  blind!     For  I,  I  too 
Lack  sight  and  every  sense  to  linger  here 
And  make  me  an  intruder  where  I  once 
Was  welcome,  oh  most  welcome,  as  I  dreamed. 
Look  on  me,  then.     I  do  confess,  I  have 
Too  often  preened  my  feathers  in  the  sun 
And  thought  to  rule  a  little,  by  my  wit. 

1  have  been  spendthrift  with  men's  offerings 


310  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

To  use  them  like  a  nosegay, — tear  apart, 

Petal  by  petal,  leaf  by  leaf,  until 

I  found  the  heart  all  bare,  the  curious  heart 

I  longed  to  see  for  once,  and  cast  away. 

And  so,  at  first,  with  you.  .   .    .  Ah,  now  I  think 

You're  wise.     There's  nought  so  fair,  so  .    .    .  curiou§. 

So  precious-rare  to  find  as  honesty. 

'Twas  all  a  child's  play  then,  a  counting-of? 

Of  petals.    Now  I  know.  .    .    .  But  ask  me  why 

I  come  unheralded,  and  in  a  mist 

Of  circumstance  and  strangeness.     Listen,  love; 

Well  then,  dead  love,  if  you  will  have  it  so. 

I  have  been  cunning,  cruel, — what  you  will: 

And  yet  the  days  of  late  have  seemed  too  long 

Even  for  summer!     Something  called  me  here. 

And  so  I  flung  my  pride  away  and  came, 

A  very  woman  for  my  foolishness, 

To  sav  once  more, — to  say   .    .    . 
The  Player.  Nay,  I'll  not  ask. 

What  lacks?     I  need  no  more,  you  have  done  well. 

'Tis  rare.    There  is  no  man  I  ever  saw 

But  you  could  school  him.    Women  should  be  players. 

You  are  sovran  in  the  art:  feigning  and  truth 

Are  so  commingled  in  you.     Sure,  to  you 

Nature's  a  simpleton  hath  never  seen 

Her  own  face  in  the  well.     Is  there  aught  else? 

To  ask  of  my  poor  calling? 
Mary.  I  deserved  it 

In  other  days.     Hear  how  I  can  be  meek. 

I  am  come  back,  a  foot-worn  runaway, 

Like  any  braggart  boy.     Let  me  sit  down 

And  take  Love's  horn-book  in  my  hands  again 

And  learn  from  the  beginning; — by  the  rod. 

If  you  will  scourge  me,  love.     Come,  come,  forgive. 

I  am  not  wont  to  sue:  and  yet  to-day 

I  am  your  suppliant,  I  am  your  servant. 

Your  link-boy,  ay,  your  minstrel:  ay, — wilt  hear? 
[Takes  up  the  lute,  and  gives  a  last  look  out  of  the  case- 
ment.] 

The  tumult  in  the  streets  is  all  apart 

With  the  discordant  past.     The  hour  that  is 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  sir 

Shall  be  the  only  thing  in  all  the  world. 

[Apart.]    I  will  be  safe.   He'll  not  win  Herbert  from  me! 

[Crossinff  to  him.] 
Will  you  have  music,  good  my  lord? 

The  Player  [catching  the  lute  from  her.]     Not  that. 

Not  that!     By  heaven,  you  shall  not.   .    .    .   Nevermore. 

Mary. 

So  .    .    .  But  you  speak  at  last.     You  are,  forsooth, 
A  man:  and  you  shall  use  me  as  my  due; — 
A  woman,  not  the  wind  about  your  ears; 
A  woman  whom  you  loved. 

The  Player  [half-apart,  still  holding  the  lute]. 

Why  were  you  not 
That  beauty  that  you  seemed  ?  .   .    .  But  had  you  been, 
'Tis  true,  you  would  have  had  no  word  for  me, — 
No  looks  of  love ! 

Mary.  The  man  reproaches  me? 

The  Player. 

Not  I — not  I.   .    .    .  Will  Herbert,  what  am  I 
To  lay  this  broken  trust  to  you, — to  you. 
Young,  free,  and  tempted:  April  on  his  way, 
Whom  all  hands  reach  for,  and  this  woman  here 
Had  set  her  heart  upon! 

Mary.  What  fantasy! 

Surely  he  must  have  been  from  town  of  late. 
To  see  the  gude-folks!     And  how  fare  they,  sir? 
Reverend  yeoman,  say,  how  thrive  the  sheep? 
What  did  the  harvest  yield  you? — Did  you  count 
The  cabbage  heads?  and  find  how  like   .    .    .   nay,  nay! 
But  our  gude-wife,  did  she  bid  in  the  neighbors 
To  prove  them  that  her  husband  was  no  myth? 
Some  Puritan  preacher,  nay,  some  journeyman, 
To  make  you  sup  the  sweeter  with  long  prayers? 
This  were  a  rare  conversion,  by  my  soul! 
From  sonnets  unto  sermons: — eminent! 
The  Player. 

Oh,  yes,  your  scorn  bites  truly:  sermons  next. 
There  is  so  much  to  say.     But  it  must  be  learned, 
And  I  require  hard  schooling,  dream  too  much 
On  what  I  would  men  were, — but  women  most 
I  need  the  cudgel  of  the  task-master 


312  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

To  make  me  con  the  truth.    Yes,  blind,  you  called  me, 

And  'tis  my  shame  I  bandaged  mine  own  eyes 

And  held  them  dark.     Now,  by  the  grace  of  God, 

Or  haply  because  the  devil  tries  too  far, 

I  tear  the  blindfold  off,  and  I  see  all. 

I  see  you  as  you  are;  and  in  your  heart 

The  secret  love  sprung  up  for  one  I  loved, 

A  reckless  boy  who  has  trodden  on  my  soul — 

But  that's  a  thing  apart,  concerns  not  you. 

I  know  that  you  will  stake  your  heaven  and  earth 

To  fool  me, — fool  us  both. 
Mary  [with  idle  interest]. 

Why  were  you  not 

So  stern  a  long  time  since?    You're  not  so  wise 

As  I  have  heard  them  say. 
The  Player   [standing  by  the  chimney]. 

Wise?     Oh,  not  I. 

Who  was  so  witless  as  to  call  me  wise? 

Sure  he  had  never  bade  me  a  good-day 

And  seen  me  take  the  cheer.   .    .    . 

I  was  your  fool 

Too  long.   .    .    .   I  am  no  longer  anything. 

Speak:  what  are  you? 
Mary  [after  a  pause]. 

The  foolishest  of  women: 

A  heart  that  should  have  been  adventurer 

On  the  high  seas;  a  seeker  in  new  lands, 

To  dare  all  and  to  lose.     But  I  was  made 

A  woman. 

Oh,  you  see! — could  you  see  all. 

What  if  I  say   .    .    .   the  truth  is  not  so  far, 
[Watching  him.] 

Yet  farther  than  you  dream.     If  I  confess  .    .    . 

He  charmed  my  fancy   .    .    .   for  the  moment, — ay 

The  shine  of  his  fortunes  too,  the  very  name 

Of  Pembroke?  .    .    .   Dear  my  judge, — ay,  clouded  brow 

And  darkened  fortune,  be  not  black  to  me! 

I'd  try  for  my  escape;  the  window's  wide, 

No  one  forbids,  and  yet  I  stay — I  stay. 

•  •••••• 

Oh,  I  was  niggard,  once,  unkind — I  know, 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  313 

Untrusty:  loved,  unloved  you,  day  by  day: 
A  little  and  a  little, — why,  I  knew  not. 
And  more,  and  wondered  why; — then  not  at  all: 
Drank  up  the  dew  from  out  your  very  heart, 
Like  the  extortionate  sun,  to  leave  you  parched 
Till,  with  as  little  grace,  I  flung  all  back 
In  gusts  of  angry  rain!     I  have  been  cruel. 
But  the  spell  works;  yea,  love,  the  spell,  the  spell 
Fed  by  your  fasting,  by  your  subtlety 
Past  all  men's  knowledge.   .    .    .  There  is  something  rare 
About  you  that  I  long  to  flee  and  cannot: — 
Some  mastery  .    .    .  that's  more  my  will  than  I. 
[She   laughs  softly.      He   listefts,   looking   straight  ahead, 
not  at  her,   immobile,  but  suffering  evidently.     She 
watches   his  face  and  speaks  with  greater   intensity. 
Here  she  crosses  nearer  and  falls  on  her  knees.] 
Ah,  look:  j^ou  shall  believe,  you  shall  believe. 
Will  you  put  by  your  Music?     Was  I  that? 
Your  Music, — very  Music?   .    .    .   Listen,  then, 
Turn  not  so  blank  a  face.    Thou  hast  my  love. 
I'll  tell  thee  so  till  thought  itself  shall  tire 
And  fall  a-dreaming  like  a  weary  child,   .    .    . 
Only  to  dream  of  you,  and  in  its  sleep 
To  murmur  You.  .    .    .  Ah,  look  at  me,  love,  lord  .    .    . 
Whom  queens  would  honor.    Read  these  eyes  you  praised, 
That  pitied,  once, — that  sue  for  pity  now. 
But  look !    You  shall  not  turn  from  me — 
The  Player.  Eyes,  eyes! — 

The  darkness  hides  so  much. 
Mary.  He'll  not  believe.   .    .    . 

What  can  I  do  ?  What  more, — what  more,  you  .   .   .  man  ? 
I  bruise  my  heart  here,  at  an  iron  gate.  .    ,    . 

[She  regards  him  half  gloomily  without  rising.] 
Yet  there  is  one  thing  more.  .   .  .  You'll  take  me,  now? — 
My  meaning.   .    .    .  You  were  right.     For  once  I  say  it. 
There  is  a  glory  of  discovery  [ironically] 
To  the  black  heart  .    .    ,  because  it  may  be  known 
But  once, — but  once.   .    .    . 

I   wonder  men  will  hide 
Their  motives  all  so  close.     If  they  could  guess, — 
It  is  so  new  to  feel  the  open  day 


314  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

Look  in  on  all  one's  hidings,  at  the  end. 

So.  .    .    .  You  were  right.     The  first  was  all  a  lie: 

A  lie,  and  for  a  purpose 

Now, —  [she  rises  and  stands  off,  regarding  him  abruptly^. 

And  why,  I  know  not, — but  'tis  true,  at  last, 

I  do  believe  ...  I  love  you. 

Look  at  me! 

[He  stands  by  the  fireside  against  the  chimney-piece.  She 
crosses  to  him  with  passionate  appeal,  holding  out  her 
arms.  He  turns  his  eyes  and  looks  at  her  with  a  rigid 
scrutiny.  She  endures  it  for  a  second,  then  wavers; 
makes  an  effort,  unable  to  look  away,  to  lift  her  arms 
towards  his  neck;  they  falter  and  fall  at  her  side. 
The  two  stand  spellbound  by  mutual  recognition. 
Then  she  speaks  in  a  low  voice. \ 
Mary. 

Oh,  let  me  go! 

[She   turns   her  head  with   an   effort, — gathers   her  cloak 
about  her,  then  hastens  out  as  if  from  some  terror.^ 

[The  Player  is  alone  beside  the  chimney-piece.  The 
street  outside  is  darkening  ivith  twilight  through  the 
casements  and  upper  door.  There  is  a  sound  of 
rough-throated  singing  that  comes  by  and  is  softened 
with  distance.  H  breaks  the  spell.] 
The  Player. 

So;  it  is  over  .    .    .now.     [He  looks  into  the  fire.] 

"Fair,   kind,  and  true."     And  true!    .    .    .    My  golden 

Friend. 
Those  two   .    .    .  together.   ...   He  was  ill  at  ease. 
But  that  he  should  betray  me  with  a  kiss! 

By  this  preposterous  world   .    .    .    I  am  in  need. 

Shall  there  be  no  faith  left?     Nothing  but  names? 

Then  he's  a  fool  who  steers  his  life  by  such. 

Why  not  the  body-comfort  of  this  herd 

Of  creatures  huddled  here  to  keep  them  warm? — 

Trying  to  drown  out  with  enforced  laughter 

The  query  of  the  winds  .    .    .   unanswered  winds 

That  vex  the  soul  with  a  perpetual  doubt. 

What  holds  me?   .    .    .   Bah,  that  were  a  Cause,  indeed! 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  315 

To  prove  your  soul  one  truth,   by  being  it, — 
Against  the  foul  dishonor  of  the  world! 
How  else  prove  aught?   .    .    . 

I  talk  into  the  air. 
And  at  my  feet,  my  honor  full  of  wounds. 
Honor?     Whose  honor?     For  I   icnew  my  sin, 
And  she  .    .    .  had  none.     There's  nothing  to  avenge. 

[He  speaks  with  more  and  more  passion,  too  distraught  to 
notice  interruptions.  Enter  Dickon,  with  a  tallow- 
dip.  He  regards  The  Player  with  half-open  mouth 
from  the  corner;  then  stands  by  the  casement,  leaning 
up  against  it  and  yawning  now  and  then.] 

I  had  no  right:  that  I  could  call  her  mine 

So  none  should  steal  her  from  me,  and  die  for't. 

There's  nothing  to  avenge   .    .    .    Brave  beggary! 

How  fit  to  lodge  me  in  this  home  of  Shows, 

With  all  the  ruffian  life,  the  empty  mirth, 

The  gross  imposture  of  humanity, 

Strutting  in  virtues  it  knows  not  to  wear. 

Knave  in  a  stolen  garment — all  the  same — 

Until  it  grows  enamored  of  a  life 

It  was  not  born  to, — falls  a-dream,   poor  cheat. 

In  the  midst  of  its  native  shams, — the  thieves  and  bears 

And  ballad-mongers  all!  .    .    .Of  such  am  I. 

[Re-enter  Tobias  and  one  or  two  Taverners.  Tobias  re' 
gards  The  Player,  ivho  does  not  notice  anyone, — 
then  leads  off  DiCKON  by  the  ear.  Exeunt  into  tap- 
room. The  Player  goes  to  the  casement,  pushes  it 
wide  open,  and  gazes  out  at  the  sky.\ 

Is  there  naught  else?  ...   I  could  make  shift  to  bind 

My  heart  up  and  put  on  my  mail  again, 

To  cheat  myself  and  death  with  one  fight  more, 

If  I  could  think  there  were  some  worldly  use 

For  bitter  wisdom. 

But  I'm  no  general, 
That  my  own  hand-to-hand  with  evil  days 
Should  cheer  my  doubting  thousands  .    .    . 

I'm  no  more 
Than  one  man  lost  among  a  multitude ; 
And  in  the  end  dust  swallows  them — and  me, 


3i6  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

And  the  good  sweat  that  won  our  victories. 
Who  sees?    Or  seeing,  cares?    Who  follows  on? 
Then  why  should  my  dishonor  trouble  me, 
Or  broken  faith  in  him?     What  is  it  suffers? 
And  why?     Now  that  the  moon  is  turned  to  blood. 
\He  turns  towards  the  door  with  involuntary  longing,  and 

seems  to  listen.] 
No  .   .   .  no,  he  will  not  come.    Well,  I  have  naught 
To  do  but  pluck  from  me  my  bitter  heart, 
And  live  without  it. 

[Re-enter  Dickon  with  a  tankard  and  a  cup.  He  sets 
them  down  on  a  small  table;  this  he  pushes  towards 
The  Player,  who  turns  at  the  noise.] 

So  ...  ?    Is  it  for  me? 
Dickon. 

Ay,  on  the  score!    I  had  good  sight  o'  the  bear. 
Look,  here's  a  sprig  was  stuck  on  him  with  pitch; — 

[Rubbing  the  sprig  on  his  sleeve.] 
I  caught  it  up, — from  Lambeth  marsh,  belike. 
Such  grow  there,  and  I've  seen  thee  cherish  such. 
The  Player. 

Give  us  thy  posy. 

[He  comes  back  to  the  fire  and  sits  in  the  chair  near  by. 
Dickon  gets  out  the  iron  lantern  from  the  corner.] 

Dickon.  Hey !    It  wants  a  light. 

[The  Player  seems  to  listen  once  more,  his  face  turned 
towards  the  door.  He  lifts  his  hand  as  if  to  hush 
Dickon,  lets  it  fall,  and  looks  back  at  the  fire. 
Dickon  regards  him  with  shy  curiosity  and  draws 
nearer.] 
Dickon. 

Thou  wilt  be  always  minding  of  the  fire  .    .    . 
Wilt  thou  not? 
The  Player.  Ay. 

Dickon.  It  likes  me,  too. 

The  Player.  So? 

Dickon.  Ay.  .    .   . 

I  would  I  knew  what  thou  art  thinking  on 
When  thou  dost  mind  the  fire.  •  »  . 
The  Player.  Wouldst  thou? 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  317 

Dickon.  Ay. 

[Sound  of  footsteps  outside.  A  group  approaches  the  door.\ 
Oh,  here  he  is,  come  back! 
The  Player   [rising  with  passionate  eagerness^. 

Brave  lad — brave  lad! 
Dickon  [singing}. 

Hang  out  your  lanthorns,  trim  your  lights 
To  save  your  days  from  knavish  nights! 
[He    plunges,    with    his    lantern,    through    the    doorway, 
stumbling  against  Wat  Burrow,  who  enters,  a  sorry 
figure,  the  worse  for  wear.] 
Wat  [sourly]. 

Be  the  times  soft,  that  you  must  try  to  cleave 
Way  through  my  ribs  as  tho'  I  was  the  moon? — 
And  you  the  man-wi-'the-lan thorn,  or  his  dog? — 
You  bean!  .   .   . 

[Exit  Dickon.  Wat  shambles  in  and  sees  The  Player.] 
What,  you  sir,  here? 
The  Player. 

Ay,  here,  good  Wat. 

[While  Wat  crosses  to  the  table  and  gets  himself  a  chair. 
The  Player  looks  at  him  as  if  with  a  new  conscious- 
ness of  the  surroundings.  After  a  time  he  sits  as 
before.  Re-enter  DiCKON  and  curls  up  on  the  floor, 
at  his  feet.] 
Wat. 

O  give  me  comfort,  sir.    This  cursed  day, — 

A  wry,   damned    .    .    .   noisome.    .    .    .   Ay,  poor  Nick, 

poor  Nick! 
He's  all  to  mend — Poor  Nick!     He's  sorely  maimed, 
More  than  we'd  baited  him  with  forty  dogs. 
'Od's  body!     Said  I  not,  sir,  he  would  fight? 
Never  before  had  he,  in  leading-chain. 
Walked  out  to  take  the  air  and  show  his  parts.  .    .    . 
'Went  to  his  noddle  like  some  greenest  gull's 
That's  new  come  up  to  town.  .    .    .  The  prentices 
Squeaking  along  like  Bedlam,  he  breaks  loose 
And  prances  me  a  hey, — I  dancing  counter! 
Then  such  a  cawing  'mongst  the  women!     Next, 
The  chain  did  clatter  and  enrage  him  more; — 
You  would  'a'  sworn  a  bear  grew  on  each  link, 


3i8  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

And  after  each  a  prentice  with  a  cudgel, — 

Leaving  him  scarce  an  eye !    So,  howling  all, 

We  run  a  pretty  pace  .    .    .  and  Nick,  poor  Nick, 

He  catches  on  a  useless,  stumbling  fry 

That  needed  not  be  born, — and  bites  into  him. 

And  then  .    .    .  the  Constable  .    .    .  And  now,  no  show! 

The  Player. 

Poor  Wat!   .    .    .   Thou  wentest  scattering  misadventure 
Like  comfits  from  thy  horn  of  plenty,  Wat. 

Wat. 

Ay,  thank  your  worship.     You  be  best  to  comfort. 

[He  pours  a  mug  of  ale.] 
No  show  to-morrow!     Minnow  Constable.   .    .    . 
I'm  a  jack-rabbit  strung  up  by  my  heels 
For  every  knave  to  pinch  as  he  goes  by! 
Alas,  poor  Nick,  bear  Nick  ...  oh,  think  on  Nick. 

The  Player. 

With  all  his  fortunes  darkened  for  a  day, — 
And  the  eye  o'  his  reason,  sweet  intelligencer. 
Under  a  beggarly  patch.  ...  I  pledge  thee,  Nick. 

Wat. 

Oh,  you  have  seen  hard  times,  sir,  with  us  all. 
Your  eyes  lack  luster,  too,  this  day.     What  say  you? 
No  jesting.  .    .    ,  What?     I've  heard  of  marvels  there 
In  the  New  Country.     There  would  be  a  knop-hole 
For  thee  and  me.     There  be  few  Constables 
And  such  unhallowed  fry.   .    .    .  An  thou  wouldst  lay 
Thy  wit  to  mine — what  is't  we  could  not  do? 
Wilt  turn't  about? 

[Leans  towards  him  in  cordial  confidence.] 
Nay,  you  there,  sirrah  boy. 
Leave  us  together;  as  'tis  said  in  the  play, 
'  Come,  leave  us.  Boy !  ' 

[Dickon  does  not  move.  He  gives  a  sigh  and  leans  his 
head  against  The  Player's  knee,  his  arms  around  his 
legs.  He  sleeps.  The  Player  gazes  sternly  into  the 
fire,  while  Wat  rambles  on,  growing  drowsy.] 

Wat. 

The  cub  there  snores  good  counsel.     When  all's  done. 
What  a  bubble  is  ambition!  .    .    .  When  all's  done  .    .    . 
What's  yet  to  do?  .   .   .  Why,  sleep.  .    .    .  Yet  even  now 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  319 

I  was  on  fire  to  see  myself  and  you 

OfE  for  the  Colony  with  Raleigh's  men. 

I've  been  beholden  to  'ee.   .    .    .  Why,  for  thee 

I  could  make  shift  to  suffer  plays  o'  Thursday. 

Thou'rt  the  best  man  among  them,  o'  my  word. 

There's  other  trades  and  crafts  and  qualities 

Could  serve  ...   an  thou  wouldst  lay  thy  wit  to  mine. 

Us  two!   ...  us  two!   .    .    . 
The  Player  [apart,  to  the  fire], 

"  Fair,  kind,  and  true."  .    .    . 
Wat.  .    .    •  Poor  Nick! 

[He  nods  over  his  ale.  There  is  muffled  noise  in  the  tap- 
room. Someone  opens  the  door  a  second,  letting  in  a 
stave  of  a  song,  then  slams  the  door  shut.  The 
Player,  who  has  turned,  gloomily,  starts  to  rise. 
Dickon  moves  in  his  sleep,  sighs  heavily,  and  settles 
his  cheek  against  The  Player's  shoes.  The  Player 
looks  down  for  a  moment.  Then  he  sits  again,  look- 
ing now  at  the  fire,  now  at  the  boy,  whose  hair  he 
touches.^ 
The  Player. 

So,  heavy-head.    You  bid  me  think  my  thought 

Twice  over;  keep  me  by,  a  heavy  heart, 

As  ballast  for  thy  dream.     Well,  I  will  watch 

Like  slandered  Providence.     Nay,  I'll  not  be 

The  prop  to  fail  thy  trust  untenderly. 

After  a  troubled  day.   .    .    . 

Nay,   rest  you  here. 


[the  curtain.] 


•      '■! 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  * 

By 
JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


*From  The  Little  Man  and  Other  Satires;  copyright,  191S,  .by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  By  permission  of  the  publishers.  Acting 
rights,  professional  and  amateur,  reserved  to  the  author  in  care  ot  the 
publisher. 


"  Close  by  the  Greek  temples  at  Paestum  there  are  violets 
that  seem  redder,  and  sweeter,  than  any  ever  seen — as  though 
they  have  sprung  up  out  of  the  footprints  of  some  old  pagan 
goddess;  but  under  the  April  sun,  in  a  Devonshire  lane,  the 
little  blue  scentless  violets  capture  every  bit  as  much  of  the 
spring."  Affection  for  the  West  country  that  was  the  home 
of  John  Galsworthy's  ancestors  heightens  the  glamour  of  this 
enchanting  bit  of  writing  from  one  of  his  essays.  As  he  him- 
self has  said,  the  Galsworthys  have  been  in  Devonshire  as  far 
back  as  records  go — "  since  the  flood  of  Saxons  at  all  events." 
He  was  born,  though,  at  Coombe  in  Surrey  in  1867.  From 
188 1  to  1886,  he  was  at  Harrow  where  he  did  well  at  work 
and  games.  He  was  graduated  with  an  honor  degree  in  law 
from  New  College,  Oxford,  in  1889.  Following  his  father's 
example,  he  took  up  the  law  and  was  called  to  the  bar 
(Lincoln's  Inn)  in  1890.  "I  read,"  he  says,  "in  various 
chambers,  practised  almost  not  at  all,  and  disliked  my  profes- 
sion thoroughly." 

For  nearly  two  years  thereafter,  Galsworthy  traveled,  visit- 
ing among  other  places,  Russia,  Canada,  Australia,  New 
Zealand,  the  Fiji  Islands,  and  South  Africa.  On  a  sailing-ship 
plying  between  Adelaide  and  the  Cape  he  met  and  made  a 
friend  of  the  novelist,  Joseph  Conrad,  then  still  a  sailor.  Gals- 
worthy was  soon  to  become  a  writer  himself,  publishing  his  first 
novel  in  1899.  Since  that  date  he  has  written  novels,  plays, 
essays,  and  verse  that  have  made  him  famous.^  Through  his 
writings  he  has  become  a  great  social  force.  In  this  respect  hi? 
influence  resembles  that  of  Charles  Dickens.  He  has  made 
people  who  read  his  books  or  see  his  plays  acted  think  about 
the  justice  or  injustice  of  institutions  commonly  accepted  with- 
out a  question.  The  presentation  of  his  play  Justice  (1909), 
moved  the  Home  Secretary  of  the  day,  Winston  Churchill,  to 
put  into  effect  several  important  reforms  affecting  the  English 
prison  system. 

1  For  a  short  bibliography,  see  Sheila  Kaye-Smith,  John  Galsworthy, 
London,  191 6. 

323 


324  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

The  Little  Man,  no  less  a  socializing  agency  in  its  way,  was 
produced  in  New  York  at  Maxine  Elliott's  Theatre  in  Feb- 
ruary, 19 1 7,  as  a  curtain  raiser  to  G.  K.  Chesterton's  play, 
Magic.  The  part  of  the  Little  Man  himself  was  taken  by 
O.  P.  Heggie,  one  of  the  most  intelligent  and  distinguished 
actors  on  the  English-speaking  stage.  J.  Ranken  Towse,  re- 
viewing the  performance  for  the  Saturday  Magazine  of  the 
New  York  Evening  Post,  on  February  17,  19 17,  wrote: 
"  Another  entertainment  of  notable  excellence  is  that  provided 
by  the  double  bill  at  Maxine  Elliott's  Theatre,  consisting  of 
Galsworthy's  The  Little  Man  and  Chesterton's  Magic.  Here 
are  two  plays  of  diverse  character  and  superior  quality,  in 
which  some  highly  intelligent  and  artistic  acting  is  done  by 
Mr.  O.  P.  Heggie.  Some  sensitive  reviewers  have  found  cause 
of  offense  in  Mr.  Galsworthy's  somewhat  fanciful  American, 
but  the  dramatist  has  been  equally  disrespectful  in  his  handling 
of  Germans,  Dutch,  and  English.  The  value  and  significance 
of  the  piece,  of  course,  are  to  be  looked  for,  not  in  its  broad 
humors — which  are  largely  conventional — but  in  the  ethical 
and  moral  lesson  and  profound  social  philosophy  which  they 
suggest  and  illustrate."  It  is  hard  to  sympathize  with  the  "  sen- 
sitive reviewers,"  though  to  the  native  ear,  to  be  sure,  the  utter- 
ances of  the  American  lack  verisimilitude.  The  author  of  The 
Little  Man  has  even  been  humorously  reproached  with  using 
the  speech  of  Deadwood  Dick  for  his  model. 

The  play  was  also  given  quite  recently,  during  the  season  of 
1920-21,  as  part  of  the  repertory  at  the  Everyman  Theatre  in 
London.  On  the  programs  invariably  appears  the  note  which 
is  prefixed  also  to  this  as  to  every  printed  version.  It  explains 
carefully  that  this  play  was  written  before  the  days  of  the 
Great  War.  This  note  bespeaks  the  playwright's  perfect  de- 
tachment which  is,  as  has  been  said,  "  an  artistic  device,  not  a 
matter  of  divine  indifference."  Yet  the  satire  does  seem  to  be 
directed,  incidentally  at  least,  against  certain  familiar  national 
characteristics,  for  it  is  the  humanity  of  the  Little  Man,  whose 
mixed  ancestry  is  described  by  the  American  as  being  "  a  bit 
streaky,"  that  puts  to  shame  the  various  types  of  human  ar- 
rogance and  indifference  with  which  he  is  surrounded. 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  * 

SCENE  I. — Afternoon^  on  the  departure  platform  of  an  Aus- 
trian railway  station.  At  several  little  tables  outside  the 
buffet  persons  are  taking  refreshment,  served  by  a  pale 
young  waiter.  On  a  seat  against  the  wall  of  the  buffet  a 
woman  of  lowly  station  is  sitting  beside  two  large  bundles, 
on  one  of  which  she  has  placed  her  baby,  swathed  in  a 
black  shawl. 

Waiter  {approaching  a  table  whereat  sit  an  English  traveler 
and  his  luife].    Zwei  Kaffee? 

Englishman  [paying].  Thanks.  [To  his  wife,  in  an  Ox- 
ford voice.]     Sugar? 

Englishwoman  [in  a  Cambridge  voice].     One. 

American  Traveler  [with  field-glasses  and  a  pocket  camera 
— from  another  table].  Waiter,  I'd  like  to  have  you  get  my 
eggs.     I've  been  sitting  here  quite  a  while. 

Waiter.    Yes,  sare. 

German  Traveler.  Kellner,  bezahlen!  [His  voice  is,  like 
his  mustache,  stiff  and  brushed  up  at  the  ends.  His  figure  also 
is  stiff  and  his  hair  a  little  gray;  clearly  once,  if  not  now,  a 
colonel.] 

Waiter.  Komm'  gleich!  [The  baby  on  the  bundle  wails. 
The  mother  takes  it  up  to  soothe  it.  A  young,  red-cheeked 
Dutchman  at  the  fourth  table  stops  eating  and  laughs.] 

American.     My  eggs!    Get  a  wiggle  on  you! 

Waiter.  Yes,  sare.  [He  rapidly  recedes.  A  Little  Man 
in  a  soft  hat  is  seen  to  the  right  of  the  tables.  He  stands  a 
.moment  looking  after  the  hurrying  waiter,  then  seats  himself 
at  the  fifth  table.] 

Englishman  [looking  at  his  watch].    Ten  minutes  more. 

♦AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

Since  it  is  just  possible  that  someone  may  think  The  Little  Man 
has  a  deep,  dark  reference  to  the  war,  it  may  be  as  well  to  state  that 
this  whimsey  was  written  in  October,  1913. 

32s 


326  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

Englishwoman.    Bother! 

American  [addressing  them].  Tears  as  if  they'd  a  preju- 
dice against  eggs  here,  anyway.  [The  English  look  at  him,  but 
do  not  speak.\ 

German  [in  creditable  English].  In  these  places  man  can 
get  nothing.  [The  Waiter  comes  flying  back  with  a  compote 
for  the  Dutch  Youth,  who  pays.] 

German.    Kellner,  bezahlen! 

Waiter.     Eine  Krone  sechzig.     [The  German  pays.] 

American  [rising,  and  taking  out  his  zuatch — blandly].  See 
here!  If  I  don't  get  my  eggs  before  this  watch  ticks  twenty, 
there'll  be  another  waiter  in  heaven. 

Waiter  [flying],     Komm'  gleich! 

American  [seeking  sympathy].  I'm  gettin'  Icind  of  mad! 
[The  Englishman  halves  his  newspaper  and  hands  the  adver- 
tisement half  to  his  wife.  The  Baby  wails.  The  Mother 
rocks  it.  The  Dutch  Youth  stops  eating  and  laughs.  The 
German  lights  a  cigarette.  The  Little  Man  sits  motionless, 
nursing  his  hat.  The  Waiter  comes  flying  back  with  the  eggs 
and  places  them  before  the  American.] 

American  [putting  away  his  watch].  Good!  I  don't  like 
trouble.  How  much?  [He  pays  and  eats.  The  Waiter 
stands  a  moment  at  the  edge  of  the  platform  and  passes  his 
hand  across  his  brow.  The  Little  Man  eyes  him  and  speaks 
gently.] 

Little  Man.  Herr  Ober!  [The  Waiter  turns.]  Might 
I  have  a  glass  of  beer? 

Waiter.    Yes,  sare. 

Little  Man.  Thank  you  very  much.    [The  Waiter  goes.] 

American  [pausing  in  the  deglutition  of  his  eggs — affably]. 
Pardon  me,  sir;  I'd  like  to  have  you  tell  me  why  you  called 
that  little  bit  of  a  feller  "  Herr  Ober."  Reckon  you  would 
know  what  that  means?     Mr.  Head  Waiter. 

Little  Man.    Yes,  yes. 

American.     I  smile. 

Little  Man.    Oughtn't  I  to  call  him  that? 

German   [abruptly].     Nein — Kellner. 

American.  Why,  yes!  Just  "waiter."  [The  English- 
woman looks  round  her  paper  for  a  second.  The  Dutch 
Youth  stops  eating  and  laughs.  The  Little  Man  gazes  from 
face  to  face  and  nurses  his  hat.] 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  327 

Little  Man.    I  didn't  want  to  hurt  his  feelings. 

German.    Gott! 

American.  In  my  country  we're  vurry  democratic — but 
that's  quite  a  proposition. 

Englishman   [handling  coffee-pot,  to  his  wife].    More? 

Englishwoman.    No,  thanks. 

German  [abruptly].  These  fellows — if  you  treat  them  in 
this  manner,  at  once  they  take  liberties.  You  see,  you  will  not 
get  your  beer.  [As  he  speaks  the  Waiter  returns,  bringing 
the  Little  Man's  beer,  then  retires.] 

American.  That  'pears  to  be  one  up  to  democracy.  [To 
the  Little  Man.]     I  judge  you  go  in  for  brotherhood? 

Little  Man  [startled].     Oh,  no!     I  never — 

American.  I  take  considerable  stock  in  Leo  Tolstoi  myself. 
Grand  man — grand-souled  apparatus.  But  I  guess  you've  got 
to  pinch  those  waiters  some  to  make  'em  skip.  [To  the 
English,  who  have  carelessly  looked  his  way  for  a  moment.] 
You'll  appreciate  that,  the  way  he  acted  about  my  eggs.  [The 
English  make  faint  motions  with  their  chins,  and  avert  their 
eyes.  To  the  Waiter,  who  is  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
buffet.]     Waiter!     Flash  of  beer — jump,  now! 

Waiter.     Komm'  gleich! 

German.     Cigarren !  "1 

Waiter.     Schon.     [He  disappears.] 

American  [affably — to  the  Little  Man].  Now,  if  I 
don't  get  that  flash  of  beer  quicker'n  you  got  yours,  I  shall 
admire. 

German  [abruptly].  Tolstoi  is  nothing — nichts!  No 
good!    Ha? 

American  [relishing  the  approach  of  argument].  Well, 
that  is  a  matter  of  temperament.  Now,  I'm  all  for  equality. 
See  that  poor  woman  there — ^vurry  humble  woman — there  she 
sits  among  us  with  her  baby.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  locate  her 
somewhere  else? 

German  [shrugging].  Tolstoi  is  sentimentalisch.  Nietzsche 
is  the  true  philosopher,  the  only  one. 

American.  Well,  that's  quite  in  the  prospectus — vurry 
stimulating  party — old  Nietzsch — virgin  mind.  But  give  me 
Leo!  [He  turns  to  the  red-cheeked  youth.]  What  do  you 
opine,  sir?  I  guess  by  your  labels,  you'll  be  Dutch.  Do  they 
read  Tolstoi  in  your  country?     [The  Dutch  Youth  laughs.] 


328  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

American.    That  is  a  vurry  luminous  answer. 

German.  Tolstoi  is  nothing.  Man  should  himself  express. 
He  must  push — he  must  be  strong. 

American.  That  is  so.  In  Amurrica  we  believe  in  virility ; 
we  like  a  man  to  expand — to  cultivate  his  soul.  But  we  believe 
in  brotherhood  too;  we're  vurry  democratic.  We  draw  the  line 
at  niggers ;  but  we  aspire,  we're  vurry  high-souled.  Social  bar- 
riers and  distinctions  we've  not  much  use  for. 

Englishman.    Do  you  feel  a  draught? 

Englishwoman  [with  a  shiver  of  her  shoulder  toward  the 
American].    I  do — rather. 

German.    Wait!     You  are  a  young  people. 

American.  That  is  so;  there  are  no  flies  on  us.  \To  the 
Little  Man,  zuho  has  been  gazing  eagerly  from  face  to  face.] 
Say!  I'd  like  to  have  you  give  us  your  sentiments  in  relation 
to  the  duty  of  man.  [The  Little  Man  fidgets,  and  is  about 
to  open  his  mouth.] 

American.  For  example — is  it  your  opinion  that  we  should 
kill  off  the  weak  and  diseased,  and  all  that  can't  jump  around? 

German  [nodding].    Ja,  ja!    That  is  coming. 

Little  Man  [looking  from  face  to  face].  They  might  be 
me.     [The  Dutch  Youth  laughs.] 

American  [reproving  him  with  a  look].  That's  true  hu- 
mility. 'Tisn't  grammar.  Now,  here's  a  proposition  that 
brings  it  nearer  the  bone:  Would  you  step  out  of  your  way  to 
help  them  when  it  was  liable  to  bring  you  trouble? 

German.    Nein,  nein!    That  is  stupid. 

Little  Man  [eager  but  wistful].  I'm  afraid  not.  Of 
course  one  wants  to — 

German.    Nein,  nein!    That  is  stupid!    What  is  the  duty? 

Little  Man.  There  was  St.  Francis  d'Assisi  and  St.  Julien 
I'Hospitalier,  and — 

American.  Vurry  lofty  dispositions.  Guess  they  died  of 
them.  [He  rises.]  Shake  hands,  sir — my  name  is —  [He 
hands  a  card.]  I  am  an  ice-machine  maker.  [He  shakes  the 
Little  Man's  hand.]  I  like  your  sentiments — I  feel  kind  of 
brotherly.  [Catching  sight  of  the  Waiter  appearing  in  the 
doorway.]     Waiter,  where  to  h — 11  is  that  flash  of  beer? 

German.    Cigarren ! 

Waiter.    Komm'gleich!     [He  vanishes.] 

Englishman  [consulting  watch].    Train's  late. 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  329 

Englishwoman.  Really!  Nuisance!  [A  station  Police- 
man, very  square  and  uniformed,  passes  and  repasses.] 

American  [resuming  his  seat — to  the  German].  Now, 
we  don't  have  so  much  of  that  in  Amurrica.  Guess  we  feel 
more  to  trust  in  human  nature. 

German.  Ah!  ha!  you  will  bresently  find  there  is  nothing 
in  him  but  self. 

Little  Man  [luistfully].  Don't  you  believe  in  human 
nature? 

American.  Vurry  stimulating  question.  That  invites  re- 
mark. [He  looks  round  for  opinions.  The  Dutch  Youth 
laughs.] 

Englishman  [holding  out  his  half  of  the  paper  to  his  wife]. 
Swap!      [His  wife  swaps.] 

German.  In  human  nature  I  believe  so  far  as  I  can  see 
him — no  more. 

American.  Now  that  'pears  to  me  kind  o'  blasphemy.  I'm 
vurry  idealistic;  I  believe  in  heroism.  I  opine  there's  not  one 
of  us  settin'  around  here  that's  not  a  hero — give  him  the  occa- 
sion. 

Little  Man.    Oh!     Do  you  believe  that? 

American.  Well!  I  judge  a  hero  is  just  a  person  that'll 
help  another  at  the  expense  of  himself.  That's  a  vurry  simple 
definition.  Take  that  poor  woman  there.  Well,  now,  she's 
a  heroine,  I  guess.     She  would  die  for  her  baby  any  old  time. 

German.  Animals  will  die  for  their  babies.  That  is 
nothing. 

American.  Vurry  true.  I  carry  it  further.  I  postulate  we 
would  all  die  for  that  baby  if  a  locomotive  was  to  trundle  up 
right  here  and  try  to  handle  it.  I'm  an  idealist.  [To  the 
German.]  I  guess  you  don't  know  how  good  you  are.  [As 
the  German  is  twisting  up  the  ends  of  his  mustache — to  the 
Englishwoman.]  I  should  like  to  have  you  express  an 
opinion,  ma'am.    This  is  a  high  subject. 

Englishwoman.    I  beg  your  pardon. 

American.  The  English  are  vurry  humanitarian ;  they  have 
a  vurry  high  sense  of  duty.  So  have  the  Germans,  so  have  the 
Amurricans.  [To  the  Dutch  Youth.]  I  judge  even  in  your 
little  country  they  have  that.  This  is  a  vurry  civilized  epoch. 
It  is  an  epoch  of  equality  and  high-toned  ideals.  [To  the 
Little  Man.]     What  is  your  nationality,  sir? 


330  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

Little  Man.  I'm  afraid  I'm  nothing  particular.  My 
father  was  half-English  and  half-American,  and  my  mother 
half-German  and  half-Dutch. 

American.  My!  That's  a  bit  streaky,  any  old  way.  [The 
Policeman  passes  again.]  Now,  I  don't  believe  we've  much 
use  any  more  for  those  gentlemen  in  buttons,  not  amongst  the 
civilized  peoples.  We've  grown  kind  of  mild — we  don't  think 
of  self  as  we  used  to  do.  [The  Waiter  has  appeared  in  the 
Jo  or  way.] 

German  [in  a  voice  of  thunder].   Cigarren!   Donnerwetter! 
American    [shaking    his   fist   at    the    vanishing   Waiter]. 
That  flash  of  beer! 

Waiter.     Komm'  gleich! 

American.  A  little  more,  and  he  will  join  George  Wash- 
ington! I  was  about  to  remark  when  he  intruded:  The  king- 
dom of  Christ  nowadays  is  quite  a  going  concern.  The  Press 
is  vurry  enlightened.  We  are  mighty  near  to  universal  brother- 
hood. The  colonel  here  [he  indicates  the  German],  he 
doesn't  know  what  a  lot  of  stock  he  holds  in  that  proposition. 
He  is  a  man  of  blood  and  iron,  but  give  him  an  opportunity 
to  be  magnanimous,  and  he'll  be  right  there.  Oh,  sir!  yes. 
[The  German,  with  a  profound  mixture  of  pleasure  and 
cynicism,  brushes  up  the  ends  of  his  mustache.] 

Little  Man.  I  wonder.  One  wants  to,  but  somehow — 
[He  shakes  his  head.] 

American.  You  seem  kind  of  skeery  about  that.  You've 
had  experience  maybe.  The  flesh  is  weak.  I'm  an  optimist — 
I  think  we're  bound  to  make  the  devil  hum  in  the  near  future. 
I  opine  we  shall  occasion  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  that  old 
party.  There's  about  to  be  a  holocaust  of  selfish  interests. 
We're  out  for  high  sacrificial  business.  The  colonel  there  with 
old-man  Nietzsch — he  won't  know  himself.  There's  going  to 
be  a  vurry  sacred  opportunity.  [As  he  speaks,  the  voice  of  a 
Railway  Official  is  heard  in  the  distance  calling  out  in  Ger- 
man.    It  approaches,  and  the  words  become  audible.] 

German  [startled].  Der  Teufel!  [He  gets  up,  and  seizes 
the  bag  beside  him.  The  Station  Official  has  appeared,  he 
stands  for  a  moment  casting  his  commands  at  the  seated  group. 
The  Dutch  Youth  also  rises,  and  takes  his  coat  and  hat. 
The  Official  tJ^rns  on  his  heel  and  retires,  still  issuing  direc- 
tions. ] 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  33 1 

Englishman.    What  does  he  say? 

German.  Our  drahi  has  come  in,  de  oder  platform;  only 
one  minute  we  haf.     [All  have  risen  in  a  faster.] 

American.  Now,  that's  vurry  provoking.  I  won't  get  that 
flash  of  beer.  [There  is  a  general  scurry  to  gather  coats  and 
hats  and  wraps,  during  which  the  lowly  wo?nan  is  seen  making 
desperate  attempts  to  deal  with  her  baby  and  the  two  large 
bundles.  Quite  defeated,  she  suddenly  puts  all  down,  wrings 
her  hands,  and  cries  out:  "  Herr  Jesu!  Hilfe!"  The  flying 
procession  turn  their  heads  at  that  strange  cry.\ 

American.  What's  that?  Help?  [He  continues  to  run. 
The  Little  Man  spins  round,  rushes  back,  picks  up  baby  and 
bundle  on  which  it  was  seated. \ 

Little  Man.  Come  along,  good  woman,  come  along! 
[The  woman  picks  up  the  other  bundle  and  they  run.  The 
Waiter,  appearing  in  the  doorivay  with  the  bottle  of  beer, 
watches  with  his  tired  smile. \ 

SCENE  II. — A  second-class  compartment  of  a  corridor  car- 
riage, in  motion.  In  it  are  seated  the  Englishman  and 
his  wife,  opposite  each  other  at  the  corridor  end,  she  with 
her  face  to  the  engine,  he  with  his  back.  Both  are  some-' 
luhat  protected  from  the  rest  of  the  travelers  by  news- 
papers. Next  to  her  sits  the  German,  and  opposite  him 
sits  the  American;  next  the  American  in  one  window 
corner  is  seated  the  Dutch  Youth  ;  the  other  window 
corner  is  taken  by  the  German's  bag.  The  silence  is  only 
broken  by  the  slight  rushing  noise  of  the  train  s  progression 
and  the  crackling  of  the  English  newspapers. 

American  [turning  to  the  Dutch  Youth].  Guess  I'd 
like  that  winder  raised ;  it's  kind  of  chilly  after  that  old  run 
they  gave  us.  [The  Dutch  Youth  laughs,  and  goes  through 
the  motions  of  raising  the  luindow.  The  English  regard  the 
operation  with  uneasy  irritation.  The  German  opens  his  bag, 
which  reposes  on  the  corner  seat  next  him,  and  takes  out  a\ 
book.] 

American.  The  Germans  are  great  readers.  Vurry  stimu- 
lating practice.  I  read  most  anything  myself  1  [The  Ger- 
man holds  up  the  book  so  that  the  title  may  be  read.]  "  Don 
Quixote  " — fine  book.    We  Amurricans  take  considerable  stock 


332  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

in  old  man  Quixote.  Bit  of  a  wild-cat — ^but  we  don't  laugh 
at  him. 

German.    He  is  dead.    Dead  as  a  sheep.    A  good  thing,  too. 

American.  In  Amurrica  we  have  still  quite  an  amount  of 
chivalry. 

German.  Chivalry  is  nothing — sentlmentalisch.  In  mod- 
ern days — no  good.    A  man  must  push,  he  must  pull, 

American.  So  you  say.  But  I  judge  your  form  of  chivalry 
is  sacrifice  to  the  state.  We  allow  more  freedom  to  the  indi- 
vidual soul.  Where  there's  something  little  and  weak,  we  feel 
it  kind  of  noble  to  give  up  to  it.  That  way  we  feel  elevated. 
[As  he  speaks  there  is  seen  in  the  corridor  doorway  the  Little 
Man,  with  the  Woman's  Baby  still  on  his  arm  and  the  bundle 
held  in  the  other  hand.  He  peers  in  anxiously.  The  English, 
acutely  conscious,  try  to  dissociate  themselves  from  his  presence 
with  their  papers.     The  Dutch  Youth  laughs.] 

German.    Ach !    So ! 

American.    Dear  me! 

Little  Man.     Is  there  room?     I  can't  find  a  seat. 

American.    Why,  yes!    There's  a  seat  for  one. 

Little  Man  [depositing  bundle  outside,  and  heaving  Baby]. 
May  I? 

American.  Come  right  in!  [The  German  sulkily  moves 
his  bag.  The  Little  Man  comes  in  and  seats  himself  gin- 
gerly.] 

American.    Where's  the  mother? 

Little  Man  [ruefully].  Afraid  she  got  left  behind.  [The 
Dutch  Youth  laughs.  The  English  unconsciously  emerge 
from  their  newspapers.] 

American.  My!  That  would  appear  to  be  quite  a  domestic 
incident.  [The  Englishman  suddenly  utters  a  profound 
"Ha,  Ha!"  and  disappears  behind  his  paper.  And  that  paper 
and  the  one  opposite  are  seen  to  shake,  and  little  squirts  and 
squeaks  emerge.] 

German.  And  you  haf  got  her  bundle,  and  her  baby.  Ha! 
[He  cackles  dryly.] 

American  [gravely],  I  smile.  I  guess  Providence  has 
played  it  pretty  low  down  on  you.  I  judge  it's  acted  real  mean. 
[The  Baby  wails,  and  the  Little  Man  jigs  it  with  a  sort  of 
gentle  desperation,  looking  apologetically  from  face  to  face.  His 
wistful  glance  renews  the  fire  of  merriment  wherever  it  alights. 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  333 

The  American  alone  preserves  a  gravity  which  seems  incapable 
of  being  broken.^ 

American.  Maybe  you'd  better  get  off  right  smart  and  re- 
store that  baby.  There's  nothing  can  act  madder  than  a 
mother. 

Little  Man.  Poor  thing;  yes!  What  she  must  be  suffer- 
ing! [A  gale  of  laughter  shakes  the  carriage.  The  English 
for  a  moment  drop  their  papers,  the  better  to  indulge.  The 
Little  Man  smiles  a  wintry  smile. \ 

American  {in  a  lull].    How  did  it  eventuate? 

Little  Man.  We  got  there  just  as  the  train  was  going  to 
start;  and  I  jumped,  thinking  I  could  help  her  up.  But  it 
moved  too  quickly,  and — and — left  her.  [The  gale  of  laughter 
blows  up  again.] 

American.    Guess  I'd  have  thrown  the  baby  out. 

Little  Man.  I  was  afraid  the  poor  little  thing  might 
break.  [The  Baby  wails;  the  Little  Man  heaves  it;  the  gale 
of  laughter  blows.] 

American  [gravely].  It's  highly  entertaining — not  for  the 
baby.  What  kind  of  an  old  baby  is  it,  anyway?  [He  sniffs.] 
I  judge  it's  a  bit — niffy. 

Little  Man.    Afraid  I've  hardly  looked  at  it  yet. 

American.    Which  end  up  is  it? 

Little  Man.    Oh !  I  think  the  right  end.    Yes,  yes,  it  is. 

American.    Well,  that's  something.    Guess  I  should  hold  It 
out  of  winder  a  bit.     Vurry  excitable  things,  babies! 
-Englishwoman  [galvanized].    No,  no! 

Englishman  [touching  her  knee].    My  dear! 

American.  You  are  right,  ma'am.  I  opine  there's  a  draught 
out  there.  This  baby  is  precious.  We've  all  of  us  got  stock 
in  this  baby  in  a  manner  of  speaking.  This  is  a  little  bit  of 
universal  brotherhood.     Is  it  a  woman  baby? 

Little  Man.    I — I  can  only  see  the  top  of  its  head. 

American.  You  can't  always  tell  from  that.  It  looks 
kind  of  over-wrapped-up.  Maybe  it  had  better  be  un- 
bound. 

German.    Nein,  nein,  nein! 

American.  I  think  you  are  vurry  likely  right,  colonel.  It 
might  be  a  pity  to  unbind  that  baby.  I  guess  the  lady  should 
be  consulted  in  this  matter. 

Englishwoman.    Yes,  yes,  of  course — I — 


334  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

Englishman  [touching  her'l.  Let  it  be!  Little  beggar 
seems  all  right. 

American.  That  would  seem  only  known  to  Providence  at 
this  moment.  I  judge  it  might  be  due  to  humanity  to  look  at 
its  face. 

Little  Man  [gladly].  It's  sucking  my  finger.  There, 
there — nice  little  thing — there! 

American.  I  would  surmise  you  have  created  babies  in  your 
leisure  moments,  sir? 

Little  Man.     Oh!  no — indeed,  no. 

American.  Dear  me!  That  is  a  loss.  [Addressing  himself 
to  the  carriage  at  large.]  I  think  we  may  esteem  ourselves  for- 
tunate to  have  this  little  stranger  right  here  with  us;  throws 
a  vurry  tender  and  beautiful  light  on  human  nature.  Demon- 
strates what  a  hold  the  little  and  weak  have  upon  us  nowa- 
days. The  colonel  here — a  man  of  blood  and  iron — there  he 
sits  quite  ca'm  next  door  to  it.  [He  sniffs.]  Now,  this  baby 
is  ruther  chastening — that  is  a  sign  of  grace,  in  the  colonel — 
.  that  is  true  heroism. 

Little  Man   [faintly].     I — I  can  see  its  face  a  little  now. 
[All  bend  forward.] 
American.    What  sort  of  a  physiognomy  has  it,  anyway? 
Little  Man  [still  faintly].    I  don't  see  anything  but — but 
spots. 

German.  Oh!  Ha!  Pfui!  [The  Dutch  Youth 
laughs.] 

American.      I    am    told    that    is   not   uncommon    amongst 
babies.     Perhaps  we  could  have  you  inform  us,  ma'am. 
Englishwoman.     Yes,  of  course — onlj^ — what  sort  of — 
Little  Man.     They  seem  all  over  its —     [At  the  slight 
recoil  of  everyone.]      I  feel  sure  it's — it's  quite  a  good  baby 
underneath. 

American.  That  will  be  ruther  difficult  to  come  at.  I'm 
just  a  bit  sensitive.  I've  vurry  little  use  for  affections  of  the 
epidermis. 

German.  Pfui !  [He  has  edged  away  as  far  as  he  can  get, 
and  is  lighting  a  big  cigar.  The  Dutch  Youth  draws  his 
legs  back.] 

American   [also  taking  out  a  cigar].     I  guess  it  would  be 

well  to  fumigate  this  carriage.     Does  it  suffer,  do  you  think? 

Little  Man   [peering].     Really,  I  don't — I'm  not  sure — 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  335 

I  know  so  little  about  babies.  I  think  it  would  have  a  nice 
expression — if — if    it   showed. 

American.    Is  it  kind  of  boiled-looking? 

Little  Man.     Yes — yes,  it  is. 

American  [lookirig  gravely  round].  I  judge  this  baby  has 
the  measles.  [The  German  screws  himself  spasmodically 
against  the  arm  of  the  Englishwoman's  seat.] 

Englishwoman.  Poor  little  thing!  Shall  I — ?  [She 
half -rises.] 

Englishman   [touching  her].     No,  no —     Dash  it! 

American.  I  honor  your  emotion,  ma'am.  It  does  credit 
to  us  all.  But  I  sympathize  with  your  husband  too.  The 
measles  is  a  vurry  important  pestilence  in  connection  with  a 
grown  woman. 

Little  Man.  It  likes  my  finger  awfully.  Really,  it's 
rather  a  sweet  baby. 

American  [sni//ing].  Well,  that  would  appear  to  be  quite 
a  question.    About  them  spots,  now?    Are  they  rosy? 

LiTTTLE  Man.     No — o;  they're  dark,  almost  black. 

German.  Gott!  Typhus!  [He  bounds  up  onto  the  arm 
of  the  Englishwoman's  seat.] 

American.  Typhus!  That's  quite  an  indisposition!  [The 
Dutch  Youth  rises  suddenly,  and  bolts  out  into  the  corridor. 
He  is  followed  by  the  German,  puffing  clouds  of  smoke.  The 
English  and  American  sit  a  moment  longer  without  speak- 
ing. The  Englishwoman's  face  is  turned  zuith  a  curious  ex- 
pression— half-pity,  half-fear — toward  the  LITTLE  Man.  Then 
the  Englishman  gets  up.] 

Englishman.  Bit  stuffy  for  you  here,  dear,  isn't  it?  [He 
puts  his  arm  through  hers,  raises  her,  and  almost  pushes  her 
through  the  doorway.     She  goes,  still  looking  back.] 

American  [gravely].  There's  nothing  I  admire  more'n 
courage.  Guess  I'll  go  and  smoke  in  the  corridor.  [As  he  goes 
out  the  Little  Man  looks  very  wistfully  after  him.  Screw- 
ing up  his  mouth  and  nose,  he  holds  the  Baby  away  fro?n  him 
and  wavers;  then  rising,  he  puts  it  on  the  seat  opposite  and  goes 
through  the  motions  of  letting  doiun  the  window.  Having  done 
so  he  looks  at  the  Baby,  who  has  begun  to  wail.  Suddenly  he 
raises  his  hands  and  clasps  them,  like  a  child  praying.  Since, 
however,  the  Baby  does  not  stop  ivailing,  he  hovers  over  it  in 
indecision;  then,  picking  it  up,  sits  down  again  to  dandle  it. 


336  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

tvith  his  face  turned  toward  the  open  window.  Finding  that 
it  still  wails,  he  begins  to  sing  to  it  in  a  cracked  little  voice.  It 
is  charmed  at  once.  While  he  is  singing,  the  American  ap- 
pears in  the  corridor.  Letting  down  the  passage  window,  he 
stands  there  in  the  doorway  with  the  draught  blowing  his  hair 
and  the  smoke  of  his  cigar  all  about  him.  The  Little  Man 
stops  singing  and  shifts  the  shawl  higher,  to  protect  the  Baby's 
head  from  the  draught.^ 

American  {gravely].  This  is  the  most  sublime  spectacle  I 
have  ever  envisaged.  There  ought  to  be  a  record  of  this.  [The 
Little  Man  looks  at  him,  wondering. ]  We  have  here  a  most 
stimulating  epitome  of  our  marvelous  advance  toward  universal 
brotherhood.  You  are  typical,  sir,  of  the  sentiments  of  modern 
Christianity.  You  illustrate  the  deepest  feelings  in  the  heart 
of  every  man.  {The  Little  Man  rises  with  the  Baby  and  a 
movement  of  approach.]  Guess  I'm  wanted  in  the  dining-car. 
{He  vanishes.]  The  Little  Man  sits  down  again,  but  back 
to  the  engine,  away  from  the  draught,  and  looks  out  of  the  win- 
dow, patiently  jogging  the  Baby  on  his  knee.] 

SCENE  III. — An  arrival  platform.  The  Little  Man,  with 
the  Baby  and  the  bundle,  is  standing  disconsolate,  while 
travelers  pass  and  luggage  is  being  carried  by.  A  Station 
Official,  accompanied  by  a  Policeman,  appears  from  a 
doorway,  behind  him. 

Official  {consulting  telegram  in  his  hand].  Das  ist  der 
Herr.     {They  advance  to  the  Little  Man.] 

Official.    Sie  haben  einen  Buben  gestohlen? 

Little  Man.     I  only  speak  English  and  American. 

Official.  Dies  ist  nicht  Ihr  Bube?  {He  touches  the 
Baby.] 

Little  Man  {shaking  his  head].  Take  care — it's  ill.  {The 
man  does  not  understand.]     Ill — the  baby — 

Official  {shaking  his  head].  Verstehe  nicht.  Dis  is  nod 
your  baby?    No? 

Little  Man  {shaking  his  head  violently].  No,  it  is  not.  No. 

Official  {tapping  the  telegram].  Gut!  You  are  'rested. 
{He  signs  to  the  Policeman,  who  takes  the  Little  Man's 
arm.] 

Little  Man.    Why  ?    I  don't  want  the  poor  baby. 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  337 

Official  [lifting  the  bundle].  Dies  ist  nicht  Ihr  Gepack 
— pag? 

Little  Man.    No, 

Official.    Gut.    You  are  'rested. 

Little  Man.  I  only  took  it  for  the  poor  woman.  I'm  not 
a  thief — I'm — I'm — 

Official  [shaking  head],  Verstehe  nicht.  [The  Little 
Man  tries  to  tear  his  hair.     The  disturbed  Baby  wails.\ 

Little  Man  [dandling  it  as  best  he  can'\.  There,  there — 
poor,  poor! 

Official.    Halt  still!    You  are  'rested.    It  is  all  right. 

Little  Man.    Where  is  the  mother? 

Official.  She  comm  by  next  drain.  Das  telegram  say: 
Halt  einen  Herrn  mit  schwarzem  Buben  and  schwarzem  Ge- 
pack. 'Rest  gentleman  mit  black  baby  und  black — pag.  [The 
Little  Man  turns  up  his  eyes  to  heaven.] 

Official.  Komm  mit  us.  [They  take  the  Little  Man 
toward  the  door  from  which  they  have  come.  A  voice  stops 
them.] 

American  [speaking  from  as  far  away  as  may  be].  Just  a 
moment!  [The  Official  stops;  the  Little  Man  also  stops 
and  sits  down  on  a  bench  against  the  wall.  The  Policeman 
stands  stolidly  beside  him.  The  American  approaches  a  step 
or  two,  beckoning;  the  Official  goes  up  to  him.] 

American.  Guess  you've  got  an  angel  from  heaven  there! 
What's  the  gentleman  in  buttons  for? 

Official.    Was  ist  das? 

American.  Is  there  anybody  here  that  can  understand 
Amurrican? 

Official.    Verstehe  nicht. 

American.  Well,  just  watch  my  gestures.  I  was  saying 
[he  points  to  the  Little  Man,  then  makes  gestures  of  flying], 
you  have  an  angel  from  heaven  there.  You  have  there  a  man 
in  whom  Gawd  [he  points  upward]  takes  quite  an  amount  of 
stock.  This  is  a  vurry  precious  man.  You  have  no  call  to 
arrest  him  [he  makes  the  gesture  of  arrest].  No,  sir.  Provi- 
dence has  acted  pretty  mean,  loading  off  that  baby  on  him  [he 
makes  the  motion  of  dandling].  The  little  man  has  a  heart  of 
gold.     [He  points  to  his  heart,  and  takes  out  a  gold  coin.] 

Official  [thinking  he  is  about  to  be  bribed].  Aber,  das  ist 
zu  viel! 


338  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

American.  Now,  don't  rattle  me!  [Pointing  to  the  Little 
Man.]  Man  [pointing  to  his  heart]  Herz  [pointing  to  the 
coin]  von  Gold.  This  is  a  flower  of  the  field — he  don't  want 
no  gentleman  in  buttons  to  pluck  him  up.  [A  little  crowd  is 
gathering,  including  the  two  ENGLISH,  the  German,  and  the 
Dutch  Youth.] 

Official.  Verstehe  absolut  nichts.  [He  taps  the  tele- 
gram.]    Ich  muss  mein  duty  do. 

American.  But  I'm  telling  you.  This  is  a  good  man.  This 
is  probably  the  best  man  on  Gawd's  airth. 

Official.  Das  macht  nichts — gut  or  no  gut,  I  muss  mein 
duty  do.     [He  turns  to  go  toward  the  Little  Man.] 

American.  Oh !  Vurry  well,  arrest  him ;  do  your  duty. 
This  baby  has  typhus.  [At  the  word  "  typhus  "  the  Official 
stops.] 

American  [making  gestures].  First-class  typhus,  black 
typhus,  schwarzen  typhus.  Now  you  have  it.  I'm  kind  o' 
sorry  for  you  and  the  gentleman  in  buttons.  Do  your 
duty! 

Official.    Typhus?    Der  Bub' — die  baby  hat  typhus? 

American.     I'm  telling  you. 

Official.    Gott  im  Himmel! 

American  [spotting  the  German  in  the  little  throng]. 
Here's  a  gentleman  will  corroborate  me. 

Official  [much  disturbed,  and  signing  to  the  Policeman 
to  stand  clear].     Typhus!     Aber  das  ist  grasslich! 

American.     I  kind  o'  thought  you'd  feel  like  that. 

Official.  Die  Sanitatsmachine!  Gleich!  [A  Porter  ^ofj 
to  get  it.  From  either  side  the  broken  half-moon  of  persons 
stand  gazing  at  the  Little  Man,  who  sits  unhappily  dandling 
the  Baby  in  the  center.] 

Official  [raising  his  hands].    Was  zu  thun? 

American.  Guess  you'd  better  isolate  the  baby.  [A  silence, 
during  which  the  Little  Man  is  heard  faintly  whistling  and 
clucking  to  the  Baby.] 

Official  [referring  once  more  to  his  telegram].  'Rest 
gentleman  mit  black  baby.  [Shaking  his  head.]  Wir  must  de 
gentleman  hold.  [To  the  German.]  Bitte,  mein  Herr, 
sagen  Sie  ihm,  den  Buben  zu  niedersetzen.  [He  makes  the 
gesture  of  deposit.] 

German   [to  the  Little  Man].     He  say:  Put  down  the 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  339 

baby.      [The  Little  Man  shakes  his  head,  and  continues  to 
dandle  the  Baby.] 

Official.  Sie  miissen — you  must.  [The  Little  Man 
gloivers,  in  silence] 

Englishman   [in  background — muttering].     Good  man! 

German.     His  spirit  ever  denies;  er  will  nicht. 

OvmciAl.  [again  making  his  gesture].  Aberermuss!  [The 
Little  Man  makes  a  face  at  him.]  Sag'  ihm:  Instantly  put 
down  baby,  and  komm'  mit  us.     [The  Baby  wails.] 

Little  Man.  Leave  the  poor  ill  baby  here  alone?  Be-be- 
be-  d — d  first! 

American  [jumping  onto  a  trunk — with  enthusiasm].  Bully! 
[The  English  clai>  thtir  hands;  the  Dutch  Youth  laughs. 
The  Official  is  muttering,  greatly  incensed.] 

American.     What  does  that  body-snatcher  say? 

German.  He  say  this  man  use  the  baby  to  save  himself 
from  arrest.     Very  smart — he  say. 

American.  I  judge  you  do  him  an  injustice.  [Showing  off 
the  Little  Man  with  a  stueep  of  his  arm.]  This  is  a  vurry 
white  man.  He's  got  a  black  baby,  and  he  won't  leave  it  in  the 
lurch.  Guess  we  would  all  act  noble,  that  way,  give  us  the 
chance.  [The  Little  Man  rises,  holding  out  the  Baby,  and 
advances  a  step  or  two.  The  half-moon  at  once  gives,  increas- 
ing its  size;  the  American  climbs  onto  a  higher  trunk.  The 
Little  Man  retires  and  again  sits  down.] 

American  [addressing  the  Official].  Guess  you'd  better 
go  out  of  business  and  wait  for  the  mother. 

Official  [stamping  his  foot].  Die  Mutter  sail  'rested  be 
for  taking  out  baby  mit  typhus.  Ha!  [To  the  Little  Man.] 
Put  ze  baby  down!  [The  Little  Man  smiles.]  Do  you 
'ear? 

American  [addressing  the  Official].  Now,  see  here. 
'Pears  to  me  you  don't  suspicion  just  how  beautiful  this  is. 
Here  we  have  a  man  giving  his  life  for  that  old  baby  that's 
got  no  claim  on  him.  This  is  not  a  baby  of  his  own  making. 
No,  sir,  this  a  vurry  Christ-like  proposition  in  the  gentleman. 

Official.  Put  ze  baby  down,  or  ich  will  gommand  some- 
one it  to  do. 

American.    That  will  be  vurry  interesting  to  watch. 

Official  [to  Policeman].  Nehmen  Sie  den  Buben.  Dake 
it  vrom  him.     [The  Policeman  mutters,  but  does  not.] 


340  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

American  [to  the  German].    Guess  I  lost  that. 

German.    He  say  he  is  net  his  officer. 

American.    That  just  tickles  me  to  death. 

Official  [looking  round].     Vill  nobody  dake  ze  Bub'? 

Englishwoman   [moving  a  step — faintly].     Yes— I — 

Englishman  [grasping  her  arm].    By  Jove!    Will  you! 

Official  [gathering  himself  for  a  great  effort  to  take  the 
Baby,  and  advancing  two  steps].  Zen  I  gommand  you —  [He 
stops  and  his  voice  dies  away.]     TAx.  dere! 

American.  My!  That's  wonderful.  What  a  man  this  is! 
What  a  sublime  sense  of  duty!  [The  Dutch  Youth  laughs. 
The  Official  turns  on  him,  but  as  he  does  so  the  Mother  of 
the  Baby  is  seen  hurrying.] 

Mother.  Ach!  Ach!  Mei'  Bubi!  [Her  face  is  illumined: 
she  is  about  to  rush  to  the  Little  Man.] 

Official  [to  the  Policeman].  Nimm  die  Frau!  [The 
Policeman  catches  hold  of  the  Woman.] 

Official  [to  the  frightened  Woman].  Warum  haben  Sie 
einen  Buben  mit  Typhus  mit  ausgebracht? 

American  [eagerly,  from  his  perch].  What  was  that?  I 
don't  want  to  miss  any. 

German.  He  say:  Why  did  you  a  baby  with  typhus  with 
you  bring  out? 

American.  Well,  that's  quite  a  question.  [He  takes  out 
the  field-glasses  slung  around  him  and  adjusts  them  on  the 
Baby.] 

Mother  [bewildered].   Mei' Bubi — Typhus— aber  Typhus? 
[She  shakes  her  head  violently.]      Nein,  nein,  neinl     Typhus! 
Official.    Er  hat  Typhus. 
Mother  [shaking  her  head].     Nein,  nein,  nein! 
American   [looking  through  his  glasses].     Guess  she's  kind 
of  right!     I  judge  the  typhus  is  where  the  baby's  slobbered  on 
the  shawl,  and  it's  come  off  on  him.     [The  Dutch  Youth 
laughs.] 

Official  [turning  on  him  furiously].     Er  hat  Typhus. 

American.     Now,  that's  where  you  slop  over.     Come  right 

here.     [The  Official  mounts,  and  looks  through  the  glasses.] 

American  [to  the  Little  Man].    Skin  out  the  baby's  leg. 

If  we  don't  locate  spots  on  that,  it'll  be  good  enough  for  me. 

[The  Little  Man  fumbles  out  the  Baby's  little  white  foot.] 

Mother.    Mei'  Bubi!     [She  tries  to  break  away.] 


THE  IJTTLE  MAN  341 

American.  White  as  a  banana.  [To  the  Official — 
affably.]  Guess  you've  made  kind  of  a  fool  of  us  with  your 
old  typhus. 

Official.  Lass  die  Frau!  [The  Policeman  lets  her  go, 
and  she  rushes  to  her  Baby.] 

Mother.  Mei'  Bubi!  [The  Baby,  exchanging  the  warmth 
of  the  Little  Man  for  the  momentary  chill  of  its  Mother, 
wails.  ] 

Official  [descending  and  beckoning  to  the  Policeman]. 
Sie  wollen  den  Herrn  accusiren?  [The  Policeman  takes  the 
Little  Man's  arm.] 

American.  What's  that?  They  goin'  to  pinch  him  after 
all?  [The  Mother,  still  hugging  her  Baby,  who  has  stopped 
crying,  gazes  at  the  Little  Man,  who  sits  dazedly  looking  up. 
Suddenly  she  drops  on  her  knees,  and  with  her  free  hand  lifts 
his  booted  foot  and  kisses  it.] 

American  [waving  his  hat].  'Ra!  'Ra!  [He  descends 
swiftly,  goes  up  to  the  Little  Man,  whose  arm  the  Police- 
man has  dropped,  and  takes  his  hand.]  Brother,  I  am  proud 
to  know  you.  This  is  one  of  the  greatest  moments  I  have  ever 
experienced.  [Displaying  the  Little  Man  to  the  assembled 
company.]  I  think  I  sense  the  situation  when  I  say  that  we 
all  esteem  it  an  honor  to  breathe  the  rather  inferior  atmosphere 
of  this  station  here  along  with  our  little  friend.  I  guess  we 
shall  all  go  home  and  treasure  the  memory  of  his  face  as  the 
whitest  thing  in  our  museum  of  recollections.  And  perhaps 
this  good  woman  will  also  go  home  and  wash  the  face  of  our 
little  brother  here.  I  am  inspired  with  a  new  faith  in  mankind. 
We  can  all  be  proud  of  this  mutual  experience;  we  have  our 
share  in  it;  we  can  kind  of  feel  noble.  Ladies  and  gentlemenj 
I  wish  to  present  to  you  a  sure-enough  saint — only  wants  a 
halo,  to  be  transfigured.  [To  the  Little  Man.]  Stand 
right  up.  [The  Little  Man  stands  up  bewildered.  They 
come  about  him.  The  Official  bows  to  him,  the  Policeman 
salutes  him.  TheT)\JTcn  Youth  shakes  his  head  and  laughs. 
The  German  draivs  himself  up  very  straight,  and  bovjs  quickly 
twice.  The  Englishman  and  his  wife  approach  at  least  two 
steps,  then,  thinking  better  of  it,  turn  to  each  other  and  recede. 
The  Mother  kisses  his  hand.  The  Porter  returning  with  the 
Sanitdtsmachine,  turns  it  on  from  behind,  and  its  pinkish 
shower,  goldened  by  a  ray  of  sunlight,  falls  around  th '  Little 


342  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

Man's  head,  transfiguring  it  as  he  stands  with  eyes  upraised  to 
see  whence  the  portent  comes.] 

American  [rushing  forward  and  dropping  on  his  knees]. 
Hold  on  just  a  minute!  Guess  I'll  take  a  snap-shot  of  the 
miracle,  [He  adjusts  his  pocket  camera.]  This  ought  to 
look  bully! 


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